where the raven flies

i'm as busy as the sizzle of a rasher
squealing nostalgic smells into the me,
dreaming on some porcine aviation
bringing home the backbone of let's see.

aching for a new found love like parents
throwing pots of clay to prove a point.
crumbling the brickwork of their hardships
orphaning the offspring of a joint

adventure, that it was when all were flowery
germinating me in wonder lust
brought about by a bigot and his bombshells
disturbing homesteads full of factory dust

and homemade jams and gravy juice for nyloned
legs; powdered eggs, make do and mend
to stitch and sink the atrocious aspirations
of a demon who was clearly round the bend

where all my hare-brained urges squat, delinquent
beyond the red flowers of the runner beans
where frogs break wind and croak, and coelesce
and polished shoe spit comes in magazines

for i'm as randy as a rabbit on viagra.
as cocky as a ballcock at its peak,
primed to unleash a small niagara
into a hole, if only she could speak.

yet within this corrugated isolation
where echoes of the carpet crawlers creep
my syncopated glossy virgin giggles
and tangled houseflies buzz and spin to sleep

and jaycee plays at frisbee with his halo.
venus de milo claps and lends a hand
to mrs jones attending burt's lumbago
thanksgiving mr marriott and his band.

and hamlet has no mind as what's to be
or not, and ledger books and overdrafts 
go hang with bhang and alcopops and vodka
while mr barrett and his madcap laughs

and words to wonder weave their whereabouts
feint as a new moon in a summer sky.
and, as good an egg as ever was, i feed
stale mackerel pate to my venus fly.

yet i fear an end much as mr presley
-wizen that he was on a commode.
a clay-like substance pressuring the bloodpump
urging the aorta to explode

while outside, far beyond the cobwebbed curtains,
life's apace with commerce and its hiss
and those who make a tit out of a nipple.
what sadly toad would not be moved by this.