
Elfden
Chumpden
Chookslayer
writhes about
In fresh turdies,
guffawing tiglets,
splurging glurb,
drooging knucklers,
whenxe
a seizure to indulgest
a zit of DIY Greco-Roman
unter den perchway
to sepulchritude.
‘Is this the way
to get a mush kiss,
standing here still
pulling my penis?’ He snoods
toothe fladgey gorlslush
whooob gawbs a goober, hollowring:
‘Ingorge anti-intoxicants for it
forthwith & pulverise the amoeba-3
out of the armadillo, Pillow!’
…time moves in an oboe polka from slug
slow to impish sprite, flits in heavy privet,
snakes under town tractors, hides behind
wheelie bins, always a nick ahead of
the quick, automatic click, the belated
enough glance, the I’m looking for you look,
off it skedaddles, darting, flitting, slick
freezing stone still, mischievous, keen alert,
a baby Pan messing in misty morning moonlight.
I am busy elsewhere, cursing these bogus charts
messing with focal planes, vanishing points,
hocus-pocus concepts of moon, window-
frame, yucca and squint till boss-eyed, purblind,
I miss the goings-on altogether…