Exceptions That Shimmer
Mine is the cat that is eating your trout
And the trout that doth harry your worms
The worms are the diet of clerics of Rheims
The reams are your papery terms
The terms, once agreed, are bottomless dreams
From which you will never get out
Mine is the head that is holding your brain
And the brain that inhibits your bile
The bile that blocks up Horseferry Road
Where all of us rowed for a while
A while that was spent as the mis'rable toad
That sha'n't be upbraided again
Mine is the pike that does long for a staff
And the staff that have threatened to quit
Quit once the bergh that the citizens flee
Whom fleas and their kinsfolk have bit
A bit of old string is a treasure to me
And surely I'll have the last laugh!
Mine is the snake that will fester and rot
And the Rottweiler panting for blood
Deep in the passage where darkness is light
And truth is as crystal as mud
In our understanding, which is not so bright,
Dozens are harried by blemish and blot
Mine is the hake that doth prance 'fore the dawn
And door-knob forever displayed
Down in the market-place, hard by the Pole
Where the ice is the tip of the trade
And the journeymen find no ease for their toil
Transmitting their spices and spawn
Mine is the goat that doth gnaw at your disks
And the disco you dread to attend
Near to the fish-pool, hard by the stream
Where ink and inanity blend
Into a mixture far richer than cream
To be supped intravenous, in spite of the risks.
Mine is the lime that you dug from the pool
And the pool of red blood in the street
Next to the hydrant, hard by the mains
Where the so-called utilities meet
And hideous mutants breed in the drains
And dream of outgrowing the sturdiest rule
Mine is the pitchfork that grows in the stream
And the streamer festooning your grave
Bedecked, as it is, with the ashes of those
Who've never known how to behave
When the windows are lit by a substance that glows
With lust from a wholly unspeakable dream
Mine is the threadnut that spangles and whirrs
And the world you affect to disown
Hard by the forest, next to the birch
That so tortive and errant has grown
It essays its own grief to besmirch,
And gravely inherits the blight and the burrs
Mine is the goatherd that strangled the dawn
And the doorknob no turkey can turn
Save for the cock bird called Latvian Sam
Who is cowering under that fern
Pecking away at the stump of a ham
And laughing his neighbours to scorn
Mine is the hencoop so lonely and strange
And the strain geriatrics endure
Whilst they are washed with a flannel of string
In a hip-bath on loan from the poor
Such is the pateince that nurses will wring
From moated Marie at the Grange
Mine is the jacket all splintered and torn
And the Tor Nellie Dean would bewail
Patched as it is with the serpents of yore
That were shredded last night in the gale
Shredded to pieces of skin, guts and gore
And frogged in spaghetti and spawn
Mine is the penfriend in far distant climes
And the climbs every hill-walker dreads
Straddling stratospheres, ten upon twelve
With the veins on the tops of their heads
Into the sunsets where goblins might delve
In their quest for unquenchable rhymes
Mine is the hacker who spoils all your disks
And the disco you put to the torch
Near to the grotto, full of old twigs,
That the flames were unable to scorch
Though serving-girls used it as for their digs
In complete disregard for the risks.
Mine is the story written last year
And the year it will take you to con it
Full of ripe pathos, dripping with rage,
An endlessly run-to-seed sonnet
Yet you will not resist any page
Any serving girl, bright in her bonnet,
Mine is the herring, dripping with fat,
And that's that ...
Mine is the coda you tried to forestall
Quoth St Paul
Mine is the eggcup, and eek the walrus
...
Yours but the silence that ever endures
...
How can one end this if words will persist?
...
| Contributors: | Apsley, Surlaw, Shipp, P, Anon.. |
| Poem finished: | 22nd November 2000. |