The Fork Prodders
“and then the grease of a thousand cooked breakfasts took on jellied human form” – The Bitter Springs
Newly minted refugees ask
how large the British coins are —
can they please
be swallowed safely —
and any nutrients if we tried?
At this impertinence
the belted robes appear —
the fork prodders and their
vape-juice tribe.
In the park, the lady sneers
rats with wings. But here's the wolves with dogs,
to wash their boots of shit
in the suffering river.
And then The Puzzler
and The Numbertaker
re-emerge to drag us back
to Crackerjack and Manning —
and ask
are there far too many
Asians on the box?
And here I only open beers,
worry about words,
their loss of meaning —
Misconstrue.
Mistranslate.
Oriole.
Ascend...
and look down.
There's something
crawling out the drain.
The new batch.
The horrid almost-human
shapes of Viagra,
semen, baby wipes and fat.