The Flaccid Beast

The flaccid beast’s a warlock, who crunches brittle lungs
Papyrus sheath, marshmallow head and a consequential tongue

Rustling in a narrow boat, a cement-mixed tube of dirt
Lobster-licked with spit cells, a half-pencil’s worth of hurt

It may become a twosome, or a sniffed soliloquy
Or perhaps unfinished business, left crooked by a tree

The scent of no tomorrow, the fear of things to come
Blunt razorblade, a blockage, twixt forefinger and thumb

Not food, nor drink nor sustenance, no vitamins, no lust
To fill the time, to compromise, till comfort turns to dust


I first arranged to meet with Ron, in the pines behind the house
Stolen, violent, tittering, soft ash for the fat woodlouse

From there my friends continued, while I fell another route
But I knew that Ron would chase me, forever resolute

So now and then we meet again, him ruffled in his maker’s palm
I ask to chat, as he spits ‘yes’ back, we kiss sickly into calm

But when it’s over, smouldering, I feel a thud of doubt
My carelessness, frivolity, me mirroring a lout!

It’s not the damage, or the image, that renders me a fool
Just the sense, that it adds nothing, a raindrop in a pool


The swinging arms of a rushing clock swim past me in my sleep
Hot suns soar through the ocean sky; electrons on a science sheet

Drum beats quicken ghastly out of time, sweat pesters my temple dents
When it’s not productive, slice it, crush it and scald it from the battlements

There’s a pile in my mind of the things that I’ve done, wrangled, cowering
Each whisper, angle, witch-wanded master, wooed and empowering

I think of my progeny’s padding foot, scraping the screens of my grave
My petrified fingers frozen loose, a last sketch at the mouth of the cave

My meetings with Ron, the flaccid beast, won’t de-tile my final proof
But each encounter, steals a much needed hour, of my fiddling up on the roof