Nether melted at belle’s charm
Tethers on the edge of jigsaws
Could not leave a vacuum
At the centre of his game
Would never put an orange
Where it might feel strange
His words are worms
Simply there to aerate
Whilst for some, they-line-them-up, as bait.
Like goblets made of silver
Housed in the strong-room of Lady Cadiver
Just waiting to get out
Stumbling together like trash sounds
Like at the start of London’s marathon
Heaps of sheep, askance, chased by python
A hungry chappy
Set there to fill-a-gap.
Is it not the forked tongue that whispers idiocies
Then paints them all up by powers to indices.
Powdering over those fine cracks
As eatable as soft white flour’d baps.
But I prefer the imperfect tones
Slim of volume, though heavily bound
Charming better than many a hocus pocus
But in the meantime this will never be my opus.
20th December 2017, South London