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A V2 rocket falls silent
into the puckered-up posterior
of a giant Victorian gentleman
who squints and says, ‘good golly, jolly good.’
He is eviscerated a second later.
Two turtleneck sailors on penny farthings,
blowing bubbles as they speed down hill
crash into a clown-car, engulfing all three
vehicles in a gigantic flaming bubble.
It is a crumpled mess of loafers and
bulbous clown shoes, sprouting malformed toes,
two shades heavier than heaven.
A broccoli nosed policeman
blows a whistle but only vegetable broth
comes out.
A porn-pimpled teen
is sticky and uncomfortable
in his clothes as much as his skin.
A man emerges from the bubble, popping it.
He is half sailor, half clown.
His somehow still neat quiff, merges with the red curls.
‘Is this not madness?’ screams the sailor clown
between honks.
The pimpled teen takes out a 44. Magnum,
shoots the clown/sailor in the crotch.
Confetti explodes
from the wound.
A young girl one more unwanted sexual advance
from womanhood
shuts her eyes.
The blue sky becomes a black sea, washing
all of them away.
She picks up one of her crystalline tears
and swallows it.
Tastes like God she thinks.
She plucks out one of her hairs,
plants it,
it instantaneously blooms,
growing to a preposterous size,
(larger than the Victorian Gentleman),
until the black centre,
adorned with yellow petals,
drips space deep into
a black hole
that swallows everything.
In an endless white space she sits,
and thinks not once about men.
After… She stands, takes out her bobble,
shakes her head until thousands of
tiny strands fall, land, take root
and a new universe opens its dumb eyes.
