SPRUNG - an excerpt

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


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