Poo Corner – Issue 32

THE THOUGHTFUL MAY FOX

I’d rather not imagine this nadir moon

where a natural nefariousness is kneeling

crawling, skulking and then squawking

about an honest brush with opportune

when raw red hands are trapped it shrieks

til May, then it is released into forests polite

to worry and feed on vote-fried meats

barking its truthful stealing of lives, not contrite

over its dealing in sets accidentally without verity

that ripped open the thin mesh surrounding lies

hemmed in like chickens in an uneasy cooperative

another natural conspiracy of fox’s prosperity

calculating, coldly, selfishly then and now

this fox’s fingers touch money in frosted hedge funds

two faces serve its chops in reap and sow

leaving not even a trail like sated cummerbunds

no shadow questions by weak and hollow

a fatuous body that is bold and brazen

easily deceptive, doing its business

in full view of the house in relief and shallow

waiting a natural course to kill in bite size

the slow, the lame, the engineered runts

come what may, to fashion wish bones fresh

from far righteous pro-cessed-pit greyed flesh

 

WAITING TABLES

Uniformly clad, your irregular beauty sensually argues with the material absence of light

your easy conscientiousness affords so many visions of you and your natural gorgeousness

prompting memory, your curvaceous smile invites our gaze

and your vibrant eyes cannot but mock the feeble glitter of Xmas decorations.

Observing such art compels wonder at how are you so lovely and are you so lovely?

Someone, we vaguely envy, knows, significantly better than our aesthetic eyes can understand.

We sit patiently waiting for our food for thought in between dutiful glimpses of apparitions of you.

 

RIP AC

A newly minted, cool, blue plaque spins, drying

with its still soft impression proud and legible

A familiar wintering sky drops its hints

gently gripping the frieze, embossing

irrefutable numbers in first and last place.

Some modest travellers venture out

with varying evidence of another cogitation

of the cosmic snow globe laying chips,

they exchange personal acknowledgements

of the permutations of such disc coverage.

Casual, contingent, co-working witnesses

with teeth chattering about the tingling

on their skin as evidence of living, still

and how oxymoronic it feels to be so lucky

to recall past goodness they bypassed.

Purblindness becomes reflective

of simple, guileless encounters

of a gentleman making weekends meet

bravely socialising with Lady Luck

at her most genial, convivial, and contrary,

enduring her impishness to disappoint,

with a knowing steady glass,

lifted ready to celebrate ironic reality.

Now lies the understated fellow traveller

who has inadvertently, unluckily, gone ahead

to assess the odds.

 

THE HEAD WHO CONSIGNS THE PUPILS

The head who consigns the pupils

is a business head

a believer in the little hard cell

and loves to highlight the black and white

The head who consigns the pupils

makes sure they cross at traffic lights

so he can spread his beloved sheets

and add up every counter in his campaign

The head who consigns the pupils

tallies each coin as they enter their slots

in his factual factory

glad to grind and render them

The head who consigns the pupils

looks into the whites of their eyes

evaluating each tiddly wink

for patented profitability

The head who consigns the pupils

stares at the A-stars

and coolly steps over the gutter

sniping the dead weights for sport

The head who consigns the pupils

to a monochrome wordless life

is lauded and championed

for his dismal political pragmatism

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