Friday, 2 October 2020

Wee Bits of Wee Wee

 

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.




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