Bloody Men!

That man – he comes in here
and dances all over my nice clean table
in his great big dirty bare feet.
He adds an unnecessary garnish
to my tasteful bowl of dahlias
pouring confetti upon their astonished heads
pelting them hard
with pellets of rolled silver paper.
(He’d just about need a silver bullet himself!)
Out of his pocket
he pulls unlimited
eggs and oranges
and one or two lit-up candles.
He juggles:
the oranges whiz round his head
till they turn into streaks
faster and faster – but the eggs!
they smash to the floor.
He refuses to mop them up with his spongey eyes.
(As for the candles,
them he swallows,
still burning.)
He strokes me all over
with his soft feelers,
tells me he loves me like love never was
and wants me like I never bin had.
Then he slopes out the door
and buzzes off blindly
accompanied by a cacophony of crackers –
leaving me walking on eggshells
very spiky
sliding and slipping in squash
and wondering what to do with my brand new coating of fur,
my uproarious red festoons.

© Rosemary Nissen-Wade 1975
5/2/75