The BBC composes a soundtrack
for the interlocking penises
of two hermaphrodite slugs.
Big budget, big moon.
Long entangling penises,
phosphorescent, soaring violins.
The night sky. Below,
a cushioned woodland floor.
So sure of themselves,
these expensive cameras,
these men and women
crouching between British trees,
hoping this will be their week,
that the slugs finally fuck.
Even nature can’t improvise any more.
Penises unfurling like flags.
Biologically I essentially find myself
everywhere.
Waves blunted by a riptide,
throbbing baby cuckoo,
rose pollen before the bee.
One hundred per cent anticipation
of want, that’s living almost dying,
so on the edge of newness,
a cycle about to be entered.
A robin fluffs behind the boars,
they’ve been recently reintroduced,
shifting snow with their snouts.
Earth exposed, the robin
shall have his worm.
His breast aflame!
I’m a poet last of all.