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, 11 January 2012

Worraloada Thompson

The hand!
The cheese!
The cheese! The hand! The cheese! The hand!

The HAND!!! (The cheese)

And thoughts of a childhood
Separation of glowing orbs, aged three.
Your orbit perturbed at a vital juncture.
Dark satanic cloth descended
Covered eyes,
Only mouth can see.

Feeling your way through the streets with only your lips.
The tongue extended to feel the kerbs and flesh of strangers.

The face disfigured by sporting misadventure, Self-image now cottage cheese.
Let's make food! Let's make food!
Ride the tsunami of amazement.

And now your restaurants are all closed.
The cloth descends.

The mouth! The mouth! The mouth!
Let's steal food. Let's STEAL food.
The hand! It grips the cheese! Holds aloft! The war is won! The CHEESE!

And yet...  ....the hammer crashes down.

The eyes could not see it coming.
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