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Slipstream Poets

 

 

2010 OPEN COMPETITION

3rd Prize: £50.00 - Nick Sargeant, Grantham, Lincs

 

                                                                  THE CURRENT

 

                                                                  I am,

                                                                  hair in shape by my landlady’s comb,

                                                                  a lodger.

 

                                                                  I join the pigeons

                                                                  for bread

                                                                  in a playground.

 

                                                                  By day,

                                                                  I am a boring clown

                                                                  as the children whirl,

 

                                                                  my face

                                                                  an aching sack on a maypole

                                                                  in the dervish.

 

                                                                  Might my heart

                                                                  prolapse

                                                                  from my bumhole? Have

 

                                                                  one hundred optimum eyes lull

                                                                  on the lollop

                                                                  in my trousers?

 

                                                                  : ‘el mayor bien es pequeno’

                                                                  I try,

                                                                 ‘the greatest good is small.’

 

                                                                  ……………………………

 

                                                                  By night,

                                                                  facing the unimportant wall,

                                                                  I sit

 

                                                                 and reel up false fish

                                                                 to lay on paper

                                                                And pick at my moustache

 

                                                                as though for lice.

                                                                and at the quiet end,

                                                                sat up deplumed in my chair,

 

                                                                I look

                                                                a sorry hen

                                                                on a clutch of bed eggs:

 

                                                               Thousands, my shrinking father says,

                                                               Thousands

                                                               on his education.