You are burnt sienna stuck to a blanket,

raw umber on the doctor’s gloved finger,

a secret ochre on peach coloured triple-ply.

You are the untouchable


turd at the end of a stick,

protesting dirtily.

Soil of soiled underpants,

threatening to collide with a fan,

a happening in nappies.


You are the word at the brunt,

and the rising spires left

by dogs; impasto

in the tread of my shoe,

printed on carpet.


You are the peeping brown crayon,

solar eclipsing,

and the toad, dumped

in a porcelain hole,

never going home.


I sprinkle you with

hundreds and thousands

award you each

a union jack

on a cocktail-stick.


You are the movement

and the mythic brick.

O happy is the pig in you!




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