The recital


The auditorium is silent
Silent in anticipation.
An occasional cough
Disturbs the waiting.

He walks up to the lectern.
Intelligent glasses.
His mouth amorous,
Around his eager vowels
And protesting consonants.

He reads:

It sits.
In its taught indifference,
The punctuated turgid stalk
Directing salivating eyes to unctuous promises:
The tender head,
Glistening with the pleasures
Of its oily textures.
Its snapped back
Itching in its vinaigrette.”

The crowd goes wild.

Yet I am still and silent,
Waiting for my turn backstage.
Defiant manuscripts
Fall from my hands.
I’ll let the feet and muck
Render my invective,
The raw confessions of my love and hate
Now I will go on stage
And try to muster from the depths of my submission
Something more refined.
Perhaps a limerick will come to mind.

– o –

satirising Robin Robertson


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