i)
Astringent lemon insurgency -
Eau de Sicily;
My plankton face.
I Gurgle my mint mouthwash arias.
Scorchio!
My coral reef tongue.
Saturday night surgery:
Pregnant prophylactic prophecy,
Carnal dentistry,
Sensual occlusion jihadi,
Lapidary mercenary;
Meat-market crash-team.
No, no.
I think this year I'll stay in -
No desire to set sail for the Babel-tongue-fisted neon canyons,
With my cinema-verite pirate-eyes.
Gottle-of-gear,
Gottle-of-gear.
Laser-guided eye-lines glancing over shoulders,
Cold eyes folded:
The smear-stare,
The double-take;
Let the crumbs eat cake.
Beer-goggle romance,
As tender as a gorilla finger-fucking a souffle.
Clowns and meer cats,
Crocodiles and fairies,
Maggots, mermaids, parrots and canaries.
I'm floating,
I'm bouncing,
I'm a primal blurry blob,
Punching out through my teeth silly words,
Like a twentieth-century typist
banging out bingo numbers in Morse code,
Behind this - my vacant and collapsing semaphore-miming face.
It's the show-and-tell,
My Guantanamo Caligula.
What the hell would Jane Austen make of this?
This Urban Jungle Book,
This Amour Vaudeville.
Piss bolts of silk,
Giraffes:
"Eat My Milk."
ii)
Dark-matter-rainfall spool their angel-down yarn,
Like transcendental fishing lines,
Wispy vermicelli of turquoise-charcoal-silver.
Illuminated whirlpool-puddle-leaves,
Circle and swim,
Like schools of tropical fish,
On a delicates/silk-rinse cycle.
And a couple swoon-loopy,
Aflame,
Ache,
Entwined beneath this wallflower moon:
Our parochial star.
They sway,
And slowly turn,
Alternating clockwise,
And anti-clockwise,
On the bendy-bus turntable,
Like only passengers on a bendy-bus can:
The Bendy-Bus Salsa.
A sonic-boom of de-cloaking pigeons,
Helicopter-blade,
Rotate,
Fan-out and arc,
And,
Fade.
Two sirens,
Now three,
Now four,
Now five,
Hermetically seal,
The rudely awakened God-Squad Sunday sky.
And as atheists pray to Jesus,
To cure them of their hangovers,
Dawn-patrol photo-tourists,
March like lobsters,
And gently collide with shift-workers,
Like deflating, static, party balloons.
In the interests of time,
I'll keep this poem to a thousand unwritten lines.
Eject.
