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Poetry

Corvus Frugilegus

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!

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