Everything Hangs In The Balance

The gilt-edged sombrero,
the walnut-nosed little gentleman
running his pea and shells game
on a paisley rug beside the steps to the opera,
the bitch stoat mounting a rabbit
and needling at its throat crease,
the rabbit beneath, squealing, its hot, lean flanks
and the hedgerow a fading murk against its retinas,
a Flemish chair, neat as a bomb,
threadwarts swaying from the chin of an angry gran,
a sea urchin going nova,
a star brightlancing like a hedgehog,
the bronze vanes of a pinwheel gripped by a blindfolded man
before the firing squad,
a camera shutter,
a pomegranate splitting cleanly,
either half an ultrasound.

I can do a lot better than this poem – buy my debut collection, Pub Stuntman, by way of proof.

You can also download my album of spoken word and sweet music. It’s called Jesus Buys Me Cigarettes.