SPRUNG - AN EXCERPT
7/4/20
to wake stunning
mum’s sixty sixth was a side-splitting candle cake tragedy
the question of how to draw for true parlance
floats
in the poetry
a series of goldfinches busy as a series of sneezes
as for my mum I couldn’t do the surprise
waxwork model on horseback rearing
it was too dangerous for the times
son
the window is thick with your lack of vision
so much of what we had to look forward to
bleeds itself out in the lines
at Tesco
son
am I grateful
for bumping into the couple who panic ate & scarpered
for the lightness of my piss
mum
yes as a question
what’s clear is that I’ve been seeking the fullness of my taste
the growing ends & the maximum
as if the world spins on an axis
absurd
galactic
tips cleaved to our lovers’ tip
to those of friends of sister & brother
of mothers
of the slowly growing tending of father
all good coverage
but when the teacup explodes in the poem
we are burning
8/4/20
I will actually fight everybody
said the wrong manor cat to the rapper in the bath
is literally this whole neighbourhood trying to build a pond
at least let me shit on the soily beginnings
I hate cats said the rapper & stop talking like that
the cat sidled up & stuck his arse on a spindly
spiralling arm of the galaxy
demanded Dreamies
this poem has got out of control said the rapper
it’s starting to sound like something else
be careful
what happened to the pond
what happened to the fight
or the fact that the cat was in the wrong manor
& then I remembered everything that was happening in the world
was happening inside my body
every second
in the living room
in our sexy times
the dirt under my nails from digging is full of it
sunlight through the lemon balm is full of it
the giant hole opening in the ozone layer
like a sideshow
the way it resembles a holiday
with the wrong people cooking the wrong breakfast
4/5/20
blue curds lapped at in the moonlight
approximates the desire to commune
from the faux sixties Austin Powers grubby & prop-like chair
the Dolores Umbridge of existences
washed in smudge & thinnest pigments
crossing crass grasses to a Vauxhall Corsa always
somehow even more so with the sock & tarmac tip toe
twenty thousand pennies up a morsel
forgive me
this lacks as much as I am such to live with
lemon balm destroyed by imposter
I squirm at the name of justice
a thing from a whole nother household
no wonder
a patent lack of tasks leaves me gagging at the roaches
& I don’t mean cock
& I’ve stopped giving fucks
when did Wensum Park get necrophiliac ducks
as for me
if this fly continues its business
I am liable to do something I hold value against
namely imagine getting killed by a rich & lazy giant
not that the fly may be glory seeking
but if it is
read it Defoe’s account of the 1665 sickness
smoke so much weed emails resemble a papier maché punch bowl
in a post-encounter hedge
& invite the fly to Valhalla
the rain seeping through like malware
Cai Draper is a poet living in Norwich. His work appears or is forthcoming in publications from Bad Betty Press, Lighthouse, Burning House Press, Tentacular & Lammergeier. He organises free poetry workshops at the Book Hive. @DraperCai
