where previously I thought there was just a hole.
In chains, tightly drawn round her trottery ankles,
so that the wound would fester and rankle,
she squirmed in slow breaths and fought for her life,
and asked me to spare her a thought.
‘A pig in my soul’, thought I, ‘a pig in my soul.
Who knows what capacity this sow could hold?’
In the Biblical sense I foie gras-ed my pig rotten,
waiting and waiting till she was besotten.
A hundred and sixty-six years to the day,
and the bitch had consumed my libidinous play.
Bitch she a sow?? Said I bitch? Meant a cow.
And I was consuming the lot.
A sow in my windpipe, a cow in a crate,
Pomegranate ice cream, I’m pissed, that’s great.
Drinking it up till she comes home to sleep
Pretending I’m comatose so I can peep
At the way that she sits on the end of the bed
Muttering about how she wants me dead.
On the brink of dreaming I hear one last thing,
And it chills my bones, as I hear her sing:
‘A soul in his pig,’ sings she, ‘a soul in his pig.
He’ll be dead by the morning I’m sure.’
Post a Comment