Page 1,   Cuckoo

Two Minds

By the time I was old enough

To realise that a man is always in two minds,

One in his head

And one stiffening in his pants,

One of my minds had begun to atrophy

Alarming me with thoughts of my burger years,

Relish juicy with humped succulence

And butcher-shop red with interest.

Years long before mad cows (my mad cows)

Wallowed in Bovine Spongeiform Encephalopathy

Painting enduring images

Of foot-skittering, slip-sliding, eyeball-rolling, tongue-lolling

Wrinkled walnut inanity.

By then, I was beyond consent

Out of out-of-control and just past priapic

No longer propelled to attention

By the jostling and bumping of buses.

But, by a marvel of need-triggered sharing,

My second mind now came into its own

Its curled, nestled warmth concealing a caring that was purest brotherhood.

It substituted joy for libido

And cuddles for a rampant, car-rocking,


on-the-bonnet fecundity.

But do I know

Which of my two minds has gone?

Dear friend, come to my side

And help me remember!


He was a great conservationist

Strolling his heather-strewn moors

And forests of pine

And high wide places

Thronging with marten and deer.

We watched him in awe on the battered

Telly with its lost pixels.

The air was moist with the TB warmth

Of the drying linen

That Infested our single room.

We too were deep in a wilderness;

A wilderness of ghetto,

A dangerous land

Where no-one from “the telly” ever ventured

A place far from green belt

And national park

A place where rickety children

Skittered like maimed lambs

Down urine-stained stairwells;

A place where courage

Found expression in the despair of needles.

We marvelled together sadly.

This man loved his trees

Much more than he loved us;

He protected them fiercely

Against OUR encroachment;

Stretching HIS limbs

And crushing us back into our little boxes,

Little boxes Full of ticky-tacky.

Little boxers, little boxers....

Sticky and tacky

Itchy and Scratchy...

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