Canto CCIII

The old mattress is naked, the old springs
press tight against fabric like vertibrae
that become visible through ancient skin.

The animacules that founded their state
within its land of nightsweat and dead skin
have no idea that this will be the day

of reckoning for them, the white van man
is finishing his job at the high rise
and will soon be here to ransack their nation

and dump it, pillaged, down the landfill site.
Perhaps they’ll call upon us in despair,
the heavy sky gods that suddenly denied

their nightly rain of heavenly ambrosia?

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Canto CLXXIV

That nutcase lily at my window sill
has pushed up two new flowers, silly cow,
as if we’ve seen the final winter chill,

but that’s plants for ya, got no brains to know
their taproots from their swelling, topmost buds,
hell, that’s how nature works, all go, go, go,

even that pessimist’s constituent parts
are heaving hives of microscopic graft,
the white cells that stampede within his blood

have no idea about the toxic draft
that brews within his tortured, lonesome thoughts,
they buzz on, optimistic, unabashed

on errands that the wiser would abort.

Canto LVIII

Within my every cell there is a ladder
that splits and multiplies as rhibosomes
read the body’s convoluted chapters.

Not one of these busy automatons
care for the person that I come to be,
a long haired, ex-Catholic republican,

scoffing at so called equality,
voted in today by sitting Lords
now chicks are alright for the Monarchy.

And I know nothing of these tiny hordes,
these microscopic sweatshops, where the shifts
will never end until I am brown bread.

And so it is that that my long suffering wife
is yet to feel the fleet acrobatics
performed by that near thirteen week old life

nor will it feel her travails, morning sick
a few weeks more before the promised lull,
just as those inbred aristocratic

parasites, waving from their gilded Rolls
will never know the nine to five dolor
of flag waving or finger flipping proles,

who are, by all accounts, their employers.

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