Ten Sticky Fingers
Do you poke it with
a stick?
Squat down and peer
closely,
move moss from here
to here,
but don’t risk your
fingers
something nasty
might appear,
millipede of
longitudinal wave,
might rip your skin,
enter in,
to brim you top full
with sin.
Will you sport a
newsboy cap?
come along here full
of crap,
a studied walk,
unstudied brain,
a vacuous smiling
picture frame,
trappist monk, right
winged,
prattling endless
fascist things,
country’s sunk,
without a trace,
concrete lumps to slit
your face.
Will you stretch
upon the rack?
Promise plenty
cutting tax,
watch for knives to
cut your back;
you’re sunk before
you sailed.
'It wasn’t me' you
sometimes wail,
outstretched paw and
tucking tail,
stacking treasure in
your vault,
it’s always someone
else’s fault.
Will you sport an
oil slick?
Comb greying hair,
Joe 90 specs,
beg the cognoscenti to
elect
a puppet of no
substance.
Don’t rock the boat
with policy,
a square face lacking
honesty,
keeping schtum in
bland assault
you’ll get there by
default.
Will you stick a
cross or tick?
Strictly come squinting,
3 pricks
move slobber here from
here,
it’s dribbling down grizzly
chin,
from open mouths
onto sheets,
shooken awake by self-snores
salivating for a soot black door,
ten sticky fingers
in the drawer.
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