From ‘A Corporate Manslaughter of Crows’
The girls’ sign said ‘Fresh Lemonade’,
but I read it as ‘FLESH’; forgetting
that freshly-squeezed lemon dispels
the smell of a corpse, I developed
a sudden wish, yen, yearning
to acquire a taste for carrion.
To acquire a taste for carrion
you have to kiss a crow, don’t ask me why;
but not just any crow; pick the slick,
sleek one in Armani black*; his kiss
is quick, sharp, clacks on your teeth,
sometimes is inaccurate and leaves a scar,
like the love you met on your holiday,
the gull, the love with the red spot;
but having kissed that crow you’ll click
on roadkill, an almost instant liking,
dine to a random design, go get
where life has failed and collided
with hard fact after all.
And after all, what’s so mad/bad
about carrion with the aid
of a freshly-selected lemon?
It’s a franchise, on every road,
with taggers-on of the slick crow
to offer harsh suggestions, there’s
a high tea fit for a queen, yet protein
for the proletariat.
*who hops between Clovenstone and The Jewel.