Wednesday, 6 January 2016


You kept looking behind you,
Over your spare rib,
Over your back-fat,
Over your question-mark tail.
Was Death following you,
He who had nabbed your mummy
And your mummy’s mummy
And your mummy’s mummy’s mummy
And so on,
In pretty damn quick succession? 

Something black and suspirating was chasing, peeping,
Shuffling, snuffling, running?
Was it Death chasing you all round the caves?
Did he peep at you through the telamons’ legs,
Smiling at the thought of  butchers’
Knives and hooks?.
Did he shuffle through the burning sand behind you?
Did his hot breath snuffle at your rubber bum?
Did Death run in your question-mark tail’s shadow?

Well, no actually. 
It wasn’t Death and Death didn’t.
It was the blessed Widow’s little black,
Archaic milch cow.

Meet Isis, Tony,
After the goddess, not the Caliphate.
Good name for a milch cow, Monica.
She’s half a gaur, Tony.
Half a gaur is better than none, Monica.
She did not smile.
Funny how my Isis follows your little Piggles all over.
She said.

I could tell that you did not find it funny.
You, in your pig-ignorance,
Did not distinguish
That little, snuffling, shuffling,
Black, archaic milch cow.

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