A creature lost in thought, Selling whispersilk dreams to its youth. Dressing wounds and nightmares In the blasphemer’s cloth. Tying bows in ribbon-rope Around caramel-scented barbs And air-brushing fortune across The face of a weighted die.
Wrap the Brussel sprouts in bubble-gum And force-feed the starving. Polish their gemstone eyes With a base of lead So that a day in the sun Barely resembles an unmarked walnut.
She slides a sugar pill down the throat Of sickly babes
Massaging SPF 50 into a bumblebee While installing the fourth camera Into the eyes of a porcelain doll.
Not a Kevlar vest, or rape alarm in sight. No bottle of triple-distilled spring water Or even a limescaleless tap, For a country mile. No, your poisoned youth crosses the road From the parish chaplain, Tightening their Velcro as The oncoming Boeing Crashes head-first Wailing, Into a red-helmeted, Shaven skull.