Trivial Pursuits

Trivial Pursuits

I’ve heard some pray you’re choking,

suffocating on thick fluff of some groping,

kennel-slum-dog cough carrying,

trash bin trough tarrying,

three legged amputee shabby whippet,

disembowelled during moulting season;

whilst seeking some scabby bitch on heat

in the smogged smelter of high summer.

Cocking its leg on each corner:

no lamppost too high

no gutter too low.

Stacatto coughing, suck in black tongue,

you hump in time to punctured lung.

Not me, though, I’m far too convivial.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.

They’ll kneel nightly at the altar pleading,

you’re bowled out, skittled in Gibraltar

unwarily smitten; lightly bleeding and bitten,

spat at, malice aforethought, menaced by

three or four bladdered barbary apes

scratching skin for fleas, just for the sake

of spreading their scabied disease;

rabid, covered in boils and sores,

so you’re forced to dash for it:

over the top, cable car zip wiring,

plummet deathwards like a cut price

living daylights James Bond

into the jaws of the briny pond

below. Not me, though, I’m biddable.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.

Pusillanimous priests ball billowing smoke,

rattle their beads, prepare the rope,

observe your fingernailed digging yellowed toes,

implore foul fungus found there below

to wildfire spread, breed and grow.

Mushrooms deep root in cankered skin.

Serpentine scales, camomile resistant, vile

hoods cover pussed up eyelids, blind trials

fending off truffle trained carnivorous hogs

that long escaped base drooling dogs

who tuck in hearty. Until sated at last,

leave what remains of guts and brains

to wash away down degenerate drains.

Not me, of course, I’m a liberal.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.

Whispering gathered congregations beseech

in tongues, supplicate, genuflect and reach

out to one, who might divine and teach

you and yours a simple lesson; hear your screech

as your left nipple is pegged then tangled

in the rotary washing line and mangled

when fiercely unexpected northerly winds

whip up a storm that spitefully spins

you in an untempered, tearaway fashion,

revolutions rapid in hate and passion;

hammer toss some limp shell back up that hill

as audiences beneath cheer, point and thrill

in appreciation at the sight of soaring swill.

I’ll not be there, though, I’m immaterial.

I just hope it’s nothing trivial.