if I could only clear my desk of goats
notes & rhubarbarian hooliganism –
at least I've learned that goats have preorbital vacuities
& so does the fundamentalist Christian gonging on
on the radio impersonating a dalek in a popemobile
how shall we tell the sheep from the goats? he creaks
how about goats have 60 chromosomes not 54
a little beard they hold their tails up & look a lot like fucking goats
the continent takes so long to drag itself sideways
the speed of our fingernails growing or oil paint drying
in the subduction zone the floor disappears
as the local turns into the possible
yet according to the King's Lynn Tide Tables
it's still 2290 sea miles to La Spezia
on the journey swallow certain details of the planet's surface: first catch your rhubarb & get
your left hand down among its little crotches give one stem a savage leg-break tweak
then do 5 more completing the over cart your flappy booty to the end of the garden & strip
off the leaves for organic pesticide when boiled with 2 litres of water (or just boil the pests)
or a satisfying tea when brewed with 200 mil for the man on the radio ignore the classical
smalls on the line bad for the blood pressure back in the kitchen manouevre your
curved length under a cold tap 3 times then turn the tap on so water celebrates all over this
crisp & bitter structure then chop it up to rhubarb-size chunks with a light knife that will
stop against anything stringy prompting you to raise the offending baton to edge back the
superficial by alternating pushes of the still-articulated sections transfer to your worst saucepan with a lisp of fresh water a whisper of sugar & a wish of cinnamon & ginger
stir with attractive wooden paddle-shaped implement over a low heat & a bluesy background
like Zucchero's She's My Baby when the bridge kicks in again turn the heat up without
warning for 20 seconds & flick in a spit of white wine turn heat back down for next track to
reassure rhubarb then get some Greek yoghurt blob this into the syrupy juices all tangy &
translucent with a pollen of freshly-grated nutmeg seven little hedgerow berries & an icing
of vodka breath straight from the expiring freezer & that is actually the goat
looking in through the kitchen window
what or whom is it standing on?
a pile of papers ready for recycling a million words on athlete's foot & string theory
new food frocks & hybrid skateboards
if a solar system were an atom a string would be a tree
under the tree the guests are fleeing as Typhon tries to crash the party
almost everyone runs & manages to turn into an animal except Pan who
plunging into the river only does the job by halves underwater he's all fish-tail
above he still plays the goat Zeus laughs his rocks off
& nails Capricornus up beyond the sycamore forever mind you
Typhon's still banged up under Etna stuck inside his chimney we've all been there
the stars shine down on the papers & mint my nephew's buggy abandoned
after he's betrayed by heat heart & midsummer afternoons:
a light summer drizzle filters the sun & Sam sees a bee in a flower in the rain
he cups it in his hands nursing it towards the shelter of the house & cries out as it
stings deep in his tender palm do you recall your own key innoculations?
our fashionable goat is thrilled by recent DEFRA guidance:
if you applied a tattoo before 9th July 2005 that you can no longer read
you can replace it with another tattoo
now I'm making this compress for stings from nettles & desktop-clutter
say the sideways-moving jaws of the face with the goatee
End of June/beginning of July – Norfolk