Monday, 30 January 2012

Stupid Is

with beatific calm
I stared
and reasoned
how well
that finger fit
with the frozen sausages
and where they sit

the rubicund blush
of ragged end
and jagged steely drip
the only
tell-tale that this
was not
what should be

until of course
the scarlet jus
began to pour
the hearty pump
of ruddy gore

and nerves
enkindled like
a three barred fire
rang keenly
through snipped
barbing wire

and smutty towel
all I could find
to plug the dam
of living wine
until a blue light
carried me
with a sense of
shall we say

to a stage
of limelight
where green masked
six and some hours
of magnificent

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