what a waste
what a waste
stan the lurcher called for
and chased
and caught
and brought 
into the kitchen
for urgent attention
the pulling
of poorly digested, pendant grass
from his scrawny, lawny lurcher’s arse

podría ser poeta
no me tendría que preocupar

april is the cruellest month
why can’t life be straightforward for once
but no
this is how the world goes

I Tiresias
down on his knees
using a paper towel he frees
the grass that was squeezed
from the cheeks
of the lurcher called Stanley
who is permanently hungry
and eats anything, unfortunately