Wee Bits of Wee Wee
As a boy, I listened closely when they sang
about 3000 holes in Blackburn, Lancashire,
then flipped over to find they’d all been fixed.
You talk of leftover holes that still need filling,
but I’d barely call that life or even living.
I say you provide me with the ocular proof,
tape decked screams of joy, of raising roof,
twin monochrome poses from hell, why not?
I’d add them to my well-thumbed collection:
Paired one dimensional splashed grinning
nudes, rouge tipped stiff peaked gobbing lips
drooling over fleshy mountains and sticky hips.
It might get the motor running, let’s suppose.
No. Reminds me of James Bond making quiche
not war; whipping up yolks into sticky lathers,
names it omelette; eggs well past expiry dates,
every perma-pressed wrinkle stretched in hate
and thereby hangs grim the tale of your tape.
And look at all those fillings, fine plaster work
on grouted skin, machine coarse paper sanded
into Ready-Brek bumps; glops of crusty slanted
turkey wattle ends, a chin where a neck begins
or doesn’t; for who unscrambles a face of gruel?
One who snubs a working tool for a stagnant pool
with cat tongues lapping sour milk. I was briefed:
on clear days you can see where the road bends
underneath the singing stars, which way it wends
watch it weep and count many miles until it ends,
chosen paths choose us preferred destinations,
then witness two spiteful hags spit frustration
when spells fail to enthral but hold them, fast
railed buffering, buffering futures linked by past,
both tramping along a ghastly predictable path
spouting inevitable cliché, declarations of unique
amongst a body of bleating sheep: minutes pad
beside you; vulpine cunning of a silent comrade.
Squeals of ‘red card ref’ masthead all the dailies,
while hats and hooters rock your jiggling trailers,
conceals the heady musk of struggling failures
who set collision courses with plasticene ravers
then all night screech in megaphoned prattle
gathered hugger-mugger, ooze pools of cackle
onto tables that deserve better care than this.
Unfurl like flags your all-purpose satin sheets
bought in bargain aisles and basement shopped
with simpleton smile, grey edged from slopped
wet stains, engrained dried flaky, scaley rotten
from shoving those truncheons up your bottom.
And any holes you report that are still intact,
yawn long boredom, or flee fast, or draw back
in horror to witness distended lips flapping free
fouling a world over with wee bits of wee wee.