Day breaks the bed creaks the dog yawns the dark cracks and up I come,
Soothing the headache with thoughts of chrysanthemums Buddha
skating over the lake on his sandalwood keg o’rum
to bring me the hair of the dog’s bum on the black rocks
stirred with a blank page torn from my favourite book
served with the news that the damage is reversible –
I can manhandle my standing somewhat closer to the vertical
if I neglect not to pass, like Mr Whippet, the occasional versicle
within earshot of my grizzled nuncle, good and grapeshot though he be he
may yet spin in his sarcophagus to grab me by the glottal and declare me his catafalque
No matter I shake him off and scratch the stain I paint the goddamn graveyard red
beginning with the nostrils and when I wipe my face on a headstone I find myself cut
To the breastbone by my own harsh tones salad vowels emanating from the megaphone
And echoing round a vast plaza I’m on my own screaming summary orders to baskets
Of mango, passion fruit, papaya and other such unseasonable consumables dressed in unrecyclable cellophane windowpane underwear wherein the cherry complains that it’s not being done doggy-style on the formica and john’s head ain’t on the platter and Salome is that your Dad but I never (as you see) believe what I read in the rags
Just keep pinching salt ‘til I brine in the brain and shine with rage and homecoming and let the hound dawgs shoot the bull dead bang bang bang and serve it up as
Another flashing light in the ever-greasier apostolic stone pan.