Poem By Chris McCabe
Nothing uplifts more than a dwarf inheriting a railway station
I was thinking, as the beetroot juice pipped my Levi-Strauss jeans.
Then a text came through : can't drink due to the drugs. Can't
get out because my face is exploding like elephant dung. I
needed trust - a rush of lust - so luckily she said, she said :
You are a fit bastard in excelsis. Supermarkets wouldn't listen
fast enough so I scanned my next stop into the juice of my ears.
The white swan in the dark echoes into night as the dry bark creaks
against its own roots. Not like beetroot juice. Those who are
fully adjusted don't need poetry, but those who fully adjust write
the stuff. He said he'd never read his work before was it pronounced
Kotch or Koke - I said Kock & recommended the longer poems.
Choo chug piped the dwarf, but the station had closed for small repairs