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
those chip-tooth tales slurring over a 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 tell you
I’m no skin to make skirt with
no treacle tart hanging from his yolk sac
but them soporific sweetbreads’ll lull you
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)
(90 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