Sunday, 23 October 2011

Poem - Working title; Shit what trots past in Hackney.

Hearing chickens, and cows and sheep,
We craned our necks towards the street.
And from the window sought to seek,
The source of such sqwawks and moos and bleats.

But no such farmyard did transpire,
To exist beneath the telephone wires,
Instead there was, alive not dead,
A man with a hole in his head.

And strangely it all made sense,
The hole was simply an audio vent,
For if his crania was traditionally sealed,
Not a single sound would be revealed.

And, how would a creature even get in,
If there was not an entrance through the skin,
Past the membrane, flesh and hair,
To settle in his skully lair.

Thus every window is a door,
For animals, their sounds, and potentially more,
And if given the chance beasts will bed,
Within a head, as has just been said.

And while from the window our eyes were scanning,
The street below to explain this farm yard jamming,
The man with a hole planned his proposals banning,
Involuntary agricultural trepanning.

Will Coldwell

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