David Longlegs

Lavender spike shoved hard

down the throat (‘Here enjoy this, scumbag!’)

tickles the soul with thoughts

of sectarian dismemberment.

The rose petals stitched to eyes

belie the state of affairs between neighbours

and their barking dogs. (‘Mine’s a pit-bull;

he’ll tear your arse off for breakfast.’)

I dine simply on the bark of willow

(‘Eat boy! Eat your vegetables!’)

that grows like dying piano chords

out my sprouting nostril channels.

I drink the nectar of squished bees

in case they spread this flowering disease

across the landscape of human spines and tongues.

The yellow and black husks I dangle

from my rear vision mirror; drive down roads

packed fresh with road kill, scream at old ladies

who push the pedestrian light’s button.

(‘Get a life before death gets you, bitch!’)

           

At night while chewing the remains

of my hibiscus, letting the chewed bits dibble

between reddened lips, I light the fireplace

with my mucus, watch as it dangles - green stalactites

quivering like skinless kittens dumped

in a back alley -and compose letters to my dead

father’s friends (‘You owed him money you shits!’)

I cannot go to bed

for fear my nightmares

may be the truth.