The Works of P G Heron

Every so often I get an email from a man calling himself P G Heron. This mysterious character sends me poetry which is clearly the product of a dilated anterior fundus, no doubt brought on by excessive consumption of eggnog. If you wish to read on do be aware that by doing so you risk your eyes turning into soil.

Wednesday, 15 June 2011

Ode To The Western Fundus

Your face,
Like a freshly soiled settee
Hangs upon my synapses
As crabs offer me flowers
To compensate the deviation
That your gravity demands of my cortex
And black, oil slick dreams of Noel Edmonds
Taking his pants off
And peeing in the bread bin
A chutney unveiled
"Great soup, Norman!"
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1 comment:

  1. Rev John Eel15 June 2011 at 13:09

    excerpt from a review of the above poem, Cribbins Verse Weekly (editor Bernard Cribbins)

    "...a piece of haunting power, evoking feelings similar to that experienced when biting through the carapace of a Nordic Flan and discovering the pulsing vagina of Susan B Carruthers trapped within the pastry"

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