Throwing Fruit at the Elderly

Ben had an ear stud

And was already thirteen,

Which made him the natural leader.

He marched us across the wasteland

In a proper wedge formation,

Scraggled grass and dust

At our feet.

When we reached the chain-link trees

And leafed fence, sun in our

Eyes, he pointed out the old persons’ home.

Pruned Glaswegians lay sunk

In the terrace deck chairs.

We had munitions:

Wild fruits like cranberries,

But poisoned, maybe,

And we flung them with our kiddy arms.

Until Ben cried,

I got one in his mouth!

We bolted then, but a rasp from the faded

Feminine span me round.

Let me get a good look at ye,

Ye delinquent thug!

My conscience whimpered, and I hated Ben.

My Origin Story

Let me tell you my origin story.

Roll back your stone imagination

And grant access to this: a true Rory

Myth, the keystone to my creation.

We must toddle through time back eighteen years,

Before making swift haste to Whipsnade Zoo;

A peacock stalks my younger self, rearing

Its gross blue throat, pouncing as if to screw.

All was flurry! All was feathers! But worst

Those dozen eyes, fixed in the plumage like dyes!

My Dad roughed the bird, but young me was cursed:

A child I fell, ornithophobic I rise.

Last year, at length, I conquered the pigeon;

Perhaps, one day, I’ll manage the chicken.

The child says that post box is red.

The student exclaims, “That post box is blood-red.”

The school-poet suggest That post box is blushing scarlet.

The moron asserts That post box is red as a step-daddy striking mother in a whiskey cloud.

The writer says that post box is red.