Corvus frugilegus has always worn the burqa
And flown the black flag of Mohammed.
The production line of natural selection
Has taken to heart Henry Ford’s maxim.
Each guttural caw of remonstration
Is a monosyllable of terseness;
The rookery a garrulous tower block,
Overrun by an army of black shirts.
Sometimes they glide earthbound on ragged wings,
And shamble barrel-chested across the lawn,
Probing for nest materials with their burnished beaks
Like excitable, voluble old women
Rummaging through wares on a market stall.
On poor days they eat Marmite for breakfast,
In days of plenty fat Beluga caviar.
They have an affinity with tarmacadam gangs,
And their favourite song is ‘Paint it Black’.
The Gothic Goddess
The Gothic Goddess with her midnight hair
Constricts your breathing like a succubus.
Her septum’s pierced, as is her lower lip.
Her varnished nails, a symphony of black,
Are instruments of torture and reward.
Fall to your knees and beg to kiss her feet!
For is she not the Mistress of your soul?
Is not her sweat a scent that you revere?
Her golden stream the nectar that you crave?
O slave, give praise to your Persephone!