Augustus Bagley, snaggletoothed and fat,
pants his way along the shingled beach
wishing he brought his hat;
the salty sweat, like bleach
burns in his eyes
but all he thinks of is the sting
between his thighs
where fabric scrapes on skin.
(There was supposed to be more of this poem, which would have made it a rather different thing. But time caught up with me and rhymes didn’t.)
Parks
There is a theory that a park
is an attempt to recreate the savannah
of our species’ youth;
that Capability Brown,
when laying out his ha-has,
was trying to scratch an unreachable itch;
his inner caveman’s yearning
for hot red soil, golden grass and thorn trees.
How charming it would be to see
Hyde Park with herds of zebra and impala
weaving their skittish way between
the office workers stretched out on the grass
and it would add a hint of spice
for the couples
savouring each others’ bodies in the sun
if every rustle in the rhododendrons
might be a leopard
hoping to crunch their skulls like popcorn.
[S3 tweaked slightly]