for Jonathan Dunk
So then the Librarian said:
‘the Piggy Bank is pi times ratshit squared’
and left the building seeking tundra.
Poor Heart-throb was so pleased
and watched through narrow windows
deeply-set as millions of moonbeam
parted the curtains. I expect
we were all jealous. Using up
our atoms and getting fucked
by handbags — just a provincial
adjective, descriptive of what
the very best eat for breakfast.
Working breakfast? Wanking breakfast!
But the coldness puzzled our brains:
how to put more heart into 70 x 7
and how to soften a beautiful
country having lobbed it tart
last Christmas when Craigo
loosed her dress and chattered
carelessly without knocking:
‘I am! I am! a hologram
made of spiders’ bones!’
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