The psychic breakdown continued thus, nurse:
I was wheeling one hundred pounds of sheepshit
In a barrow infiltrated with my DNA
Across the fenceposts to where those OTHER people live --
You know, the ones who build barbed wire and towering cement --
When I suddenly coughed up a tiny fragment of a poem
Contained in a glowing mauve vial
With Sandspit etchings and government warning sticker
And the words “talks sick“ or such. As I say, the wheelbarrow
Was full of steaming offal,
When the neighbour says: "Kiwi, what's inna locket?
You gonna send that to yer gal? HAWHAWHAW!"
And I lost it ....
I broke down, whimpered, fondled my molars,
Picked up the vial, twisted off
The cheap screw-cap, and proceeded to read:
"Ethereal beauty of eyes of wonder
So fair are your graceful ways
I behold your Godliness in honour
Of respect, where were your heaven-sent ...."
And the man, as I looked up, had an expression
Of utmost astonishment, but of the dangerous kind,
For his trigger-finger twitched, his appendix protruded
Under his shirt, creating the face of Tammy Faye Bakker,
And the air was filled with synthetic wafers and gunsmoke.
I tried to ignore him whilst continuing with my poem
But he planted the butt end of his pitchfork in seedy soil
And impaled himself. These were his dying words:
"O, the English language,
Fashioned from anvils and rainwater,
Furious electrical storms and slow earthworms,
Lays bleeding on the sheepish stoop,
Gouged and gagged by wordy heretics
In the drydocked refineries of lit-spam."
And with that, I re-ingested my poem
And repeated it ad nauseum
For my own crucifixion, and the cold grace
Of my mouldering-in-wait ethereal swimsuit model.