Poo Corner – Issue 9

My head’s as light as a feather
I think I’m I) Under the weather
I may have caught something from Herman Munce
He’s a bit of a II)Dunce
He lived and worked in Georgia, in Macon
His family forced him to III) Bring home the bacon
Although his life was a bit of a carbuncle
He always would say, IV) Bob’s Your Uncle
He’d always go to church to confess
And pray that he could be better at V) Chess

Travelling in a tunnel in a dim morning light
Suddenly, next to me, she unfurled, the sun.
I wish I could read her thoughts as they Scatter like birds
Leaving her face ruddy and full like breakfast butter
She flicks her hair into place and settles her knife-edge nerves
Full of energy as she is, unsettling as a soup kitchen
She serves this hungry , impoverished spirit
My eyes move like a shutter
Applauding her breezy manner
In my snapshot glance
Our hands are suspended in now
And almost touch yet
Are as far apart as is imaginable
I grip my book and she her paper
And my voice remains a mere vapour
I dare not look for fear of killing
Her magical smile-memory
I dare not hear the laughter that effects pain
Unwittingly, ignorant of her own beauty

What’s measured in inches
Invariably pinches
An immeasurable soul
And whatever steals time
Drowns that soul in lime
On scales without justice
Leaving only a residue
Of a once living retinue
Hollowed by percentages
Vilifying the lost wages
As business cuts the cost
Of once living organisms
With the scythe of capitalism’s
Corporate responsibility
To use a country’s possibility
And render it entirely lost

Sitting here again, against
My bitter judgement
Cursing the miracle
The sun bounds through
The window, like a dog
Unaware why I’m wearing black
And all the time this earth
Is moving, I, without ocean
Air, storm and sun, know
It is merely my head that’s spinning
The table’s still stable
And the glass is still empty

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