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.

Friday, 27 January 2012

Relax-o-Soil

I bought a new bag
Of relax-o-soil
I went into the woods
I poured half the bag
Into an open grave

I got in

My wife
Helpfully
Poured over the other half
Until I was part of the ground

I didn't like it

I couldn't get comfortable
I tossed
Turned
The soil moving around me
Unsure of the expectations placed upon it.

And then
A cold hand grabbed me
I screamed
It pulled
I screamed harder
It pulled harder
Panic
Soil filled my nostrils
The hand won the battle
It was my wife's hand
Pulling me from the earth.

I knew that.
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