Mope
by Thomas Blake
We tried the cryptic crossword
in an attempt to wake the beast
outside, ginger biscuits sludged in a tray
and offal, somewhere, was being thrown off a truck
with a sound that resembled a wet kiss or two
and the grunting of men dressed entirely in white
(what’s that about?) for you. A bald fella’s head
passes the window; the street croaks under the rain:
what passes for ambivalence is often desire. If
you listen hard enough. Is it possible to apply
anything cosmetic to the cracks
in the road?
If you think about it, there is a hidden mycelium, which,
asses, cranes its billion necks to see the future and the rule
of the rude: bills of blackbirds snap off in the putty earth
and a mole sasses through the whole shebang. Larvae
bubble. The bloom on a plum turns
out to be athlete’s foot spray.