realised (with her morning tea), on March eighth,
that she had been misled.
She looked at Language snoring beside her,
his lascivious tongue flickering kisses…
and wondered what she’d ever seen in him.
In the early days he was lithe and spare:
Lean as a leaf that could cut a thumb;
moist as an eye in a crucifixion.
The traps he sprung watered cheeks with pearls…
Laughter bubbled unforced.
His seduction had shaved pencils;
spearing dark dreams like bats fleeing light.
Now he sulked, demanded home cooking…
Cracking bones, complaining…
at a desk-top boiling all day.
How had insinuation slithered
(Persuading the Word to ape God?)
between the smooth sheets of a welcome.
The coral brained dish of endeavour
turning black with nicotine.
The Egyptians were content with an alphabet;
awaiting Napoleon, planning parchment or paper?
It was no big deal, sand would suffice.
chipping stone, slurping beer.
Talk alone managed to trade and to travel…
The river flooded without self-assembly instructions…
Pyramids made their point, and were proved non-combustible.
Who is Posterity?
What is the fuss?
Her garlanded Bacchus had grown obese
snorting lines of attention;
sweating metaphors sweet,
astride his tortoise, bibulous, self-serving,
as flaccid as the spittle sliding