poetry critical

online poetry workshop

it’s Dickens for dinner, bill

you’re only as sick as the company you keep
and by dint of hard persuasion, strong ale and bleeding,
your rigid perseverance has led to their entire disappearance.
but not with this one, bill.
he’ll arrive with a fish spawning from his waistcoat,
some hot negus and a penn’orth of gin,
them chip-tooth tales slurring over his pheasant-dressed
tongue and before you know it he’s carving you
like a pair of scissors.
he’ll caudle your stump of meat in a basin of beef-tea
and stir it with an antler of celery while you fuss
over some two-penny salad,
and I’ll tell you, I’m no skin to make skirt with, no treacle tart
hanging from his yolk sac, but them soporific sweetbreads’ll
lull me straight into his Christmas pie.
he’ll slam-dunk your blood sausage,
wrap you in a cabbage leaf and set you next to the calf’s head
by a roaring fire, then stick you in a bowl of bishop,
flour your belly, scald you, wring you out, hose you down.
no spectator by and London all around us, a sprig of poems
tossed in the pot and a doughty fist in your asshole—
nothing savage about it. chuck-d’s makin’ plumb pudding bill;
it’s what’s for dinner.

14 Nov 17

Rated 10 (10) by 1 users.
Active (1):
Inactive (0): 10

(define the words in this poem)
(72 more poems by this author)

(1 user considers this poem a favorite)

Add A Comment:
Enter the following text to post as unknown: captcha


No one can tell a story quite like you.
Merry Xmas to you and Bill.
 — dax