Poem In Which I Up The Ante
On mornings of summons for slandering glaciers
I hole-bolt my narrow margin of feint-lined symmetry,
one hip-flask fancier walloping it clean away. Those days
of gutsy innings, I might play Mah Jongg with mud wrestlers
or ride hotshod, a renegade gonzo packing punches into boxes,
agog at the croc as it pelotons past, fast horizontal question marks
of shave-legged hunchbacks blurring by regardless. That’s often when
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I go up a gear, global-position a mangy beach raddled by gangsters,
mongeese grouped in corners, then, rummaging the pant drawer,
scrum sudden into a laden fleet of pick-up trucks, live louche,
perturbed by a unique surge and smitten with wretch-razzle,
garner deserved accolades, place a daisy in lackadaisical.
Afterwards, I’m a sugar fondu sat decoding vibrations,
marmalading the thick-cut moment, vituperatively.
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Paul Stephenson
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