SPRUNG - an excerpt




to wake stunning


mum’s sixty sixth was a side-splitting candle cake tragedy


the question of how to draw for true parlance




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




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




am I grateful


for bumping into the couple who panic ate & scarpered  


for the lightness of my piss




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






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  



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  



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

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