Thursday, 16 December 2010


I went into my garden on
the last blue Moon
and found gnomes eating
waffles in the petunias;
they held clenched between
their toes several spoons
and shuvelled like gravellers
their tuck all peculiar.

Wiffleball bats
danced like flowers
and cursed at me
for lacking mental vigour;
my imagination, they held,
should be red devourer
with a dripping violence
and a hallucinating snigger.

These gnomes were perverse
as they ground all vile
against the wiffle-bat flowers
like imps drunk on lust:
their teeth were all spangley,
like piano teeth of crocodile,
and they guffawed aloud
like drunken gnomes must.

And in this confusion
I heard the kettle steam:
after the click,
the release of a cry.
If only this madness
were the kernel of a dream,
but I fear, dear reader,
this nonsense is mine.

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