Rest Cure

Hand me the revolver –
Today, the crushed hats of spinsters
Scroll past like carnival ducklings
And good God that weathervane
Is asking for it.

When the newsagent
Hands me my change
Without looking up
I shall calmly grasp his wrist
And wait for eye contact;
When the teenage girls stand
And giggle with their peached
Breasts and ringlets
I shall stop
Open my mouth like a surgeon’s bag
And lever out a canine;
I’ll break into the reverend’s car
And see he
Glumly reconsiders his life
By tea time –
Nothing like a bull’s heart
In the glove compartment
To get you thinking.

Lashing spume,
A neon archangel,
Cockles in a polystyrene tub –
I have seen these things and lived.
A seagull’s picking skate from sick.
Darling, hand me the revolver.