When you speak
on your imaginary podium
rings of smoke escape from the gaps
in your teeth
like maggots sliding down
the bin-liner
as rampant as mosquitoes
breeding.
The cleaner comes
on the morrow
to lay the sawdust over
your last release
damp woody splinters,
letters swimming in bile
such drips from the garden hose
billowing out filth.
Crowded bystanders
raise their eyebrows
at the girl in her mothers clothes
Pointed tail between your legs
you scurry back
between the rock and the hard place
as predictable as the corner piece
of a puzzle.
