Poem as punctured lung,

as bladder, wracked and spongy.
Follow the language deep inside;

pipe bone flutes into a dog’s rump,
inhale and play. What’s on my mind?

Cross-section of a larynx in full flow;
sphinx at the open window as baffled

kitten kitted out in rain-soaked mufti,
tuft of ginger felt above the sphincter.

Nothing says haircut like good breeding.
Now that’s a leading question. Suck.

Suck and blow. Lick the inside of the head.
In jest, ingest your self, reconstituted

and immensely minced as burger, Bolognese
and steak tartare, rerouted on the wire

as news that doesn’t stay but constantly
gyrates like Kristen in the mirrored gym

I bookmarked for a future visit, a trip,
if you like, in the looking glass, her taut,

Lycrad arse arse-bobbing out of shot
like a minister on Question Time

coughing in a silent hail.


  1. Rehan Qayoom says:

    Absolutely Brilliant!

  2. Tom says:

    Thanks Rehan. This is, potentially, part of a series.

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