Every Wednesday I post a new poem – a first draft, a response to something in the news, or a commission. If you’d like to request a poem on any subject, pop a message in the comments box below or email me via the ‘Contact Me’ link on the right, giving me a title, or a little bit of information about the poem you’d like.
Right. Here’s today’s poem.
Five strangely garrulous pigs arrive at my doorstep, expectant.
Their septa twitch at the sight of my wedding ring; questions
in ubber-dubber, Esperanto, Spanglish
gruzzle from smooth hard lips:
how does acupuncture work
is the world ending
what is the illuminati
They are the dead grey of brains; they drink my Wi-Fi in rills,
black lashes wafting the noonlight.
Five months pass and my backyard is giddy with shoats.
Clouds like sausage skins scud across a cochineal wash
while trotters mash the toffeed earth. My old armoire
serves as hollowed trough; five farrows scoff down beech nuts,
acorns, kitchen slops, a SIM card, hard drives;
slumgullion dangles from their loaded chops.
The five pigs are slow now, glutted on technology.
Sometimes I catch one, slumped against the fence, downloading,
a frock of mud coating its guts. The questions have all but stopped.
Knowledge is power
moons the sow, hopelessly,
to a clutch of chitterlings broiling in a wok,
her words drying to a crust.