Why Islands

By | 1 February 2013

For our next trick we disfigure the puma.
O to be marooned with Ginger or Calypso.
You have committed a horrible act involving
an orange. Cheerio black sheep, dark horse,
sore thumb. Go hunt coconut with slingshot,
prize silence, imbibe moonshine and wanderlust.
Jesus! Is that you, Ginger, in real life?
We don’t see so many oranges in England,
only serving to improve the canoe. One cyclone
and the resort is on the house, sold for peanuts.
D.H Lawrence radiates while washing plates.
The botanist’s trousers disappear as pale moons
go down and up in the shrubs. That’s how the coconut
crumbles on the slices of empire. It sticks to your lip,
tanning at the atoll, the poison pip set to detonate
and reflect in minnie-mouse sunglasses. Whoopie
cushion, canned laughter, castaways — to be continued.

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