Is that thumping sound war? Or
me, strident, leaping from the
peek in my jeans.
I survey my kingdom.

I’m proud I possess
the end to our means,
I suggest it may be our saviour.
In these last days of the empire
Let’s roll back what always worked
with new angles, converts
leftist leans and may it grow
every time I tell a lie-

My task, my tusk, to hold and
thrust my hunter, gatherer
my “penis”, if you’re proper,
my husband, my accessory-
a glimpse into the mind of every
man made average ‘cos they snuggle
up to their winkles at night and
think of the same things-
I fear there are no originals when
you realise instinct does
what it does, so
do not mourn simpler times.

But no-one’s a pro with God’s in-joke and
Realise that life is hard for me always.
With this strut I keep, its landscape
could rupture, rust, need treaties and
catering, I fear an enquiry,
I fear who might be watching.
I can’t sit, stand, or see bananas
Without feeling queasy.

Still, when you’re sad and lonely and crying,
when everything is pointed, dry-
limp wristed it’s a comfort you can clutch
to your bosum and sigh.

Funny how that happens

Even to the civilised.