Sta.sh
What with the war
and the bad blood
and the batty city
and the weather
and mother in the attic in a strop
because the cat dropped a tea cup; and the cat tizzy-
whizzy at the dog's skirmishes beneath
her bed, at the demons she eye-spies
at sunrise; and what else,
auntie not speaking to uncle not speaking to grandpa
not speaking to me, for giving him lavender soap;
and with gyp from the old flesh wound
which the doctor said
I ought to get tattooed
a toothy mouth about its gaping black tongue
he said, and waggle it at parties, hah, hah,
which is a salve but not a solution;
and with the weeds in the garden
decay in the weeds
worms in the mould
and maggots in everything;
and the pot overfrothing, rice spilling in the kitchen,
sauce splattering on the lino, orangey and meaty bits, the kids on their knees
licking it up, which is sweet; and the slugs
which slop slime in the porridge but are delicious in stew,
in winter; what with the winter, the sleet; the windscreen an ice sheet;
holey socks; grey toes; bubbling nose; sorrowing bones; synapses comatose;
and the washing that is growing like an ogre made of linen;
and what with council tax and politics;
the seven year tithe due soon
for which the axe must be ground,
priest summoned, candles lit,
last rites righted, throat slit;
and a host of new waterborne diseases we must fight off
with longships and helmets and spears;
and mars to explore
and supper to bungle
and five knock-knocking regrets to knock on the head
by Wednesday, or Thursday at the latest, I'm afraid
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) as well as 50-odd poems you haven't yet seen.
.
head all full of dreams.
i really like "eye-spies at sunrise"