[Blogpost by Rachel]
In which Inky go on an away day in a flat in Edinburgh, eat pitta bread and Pringles, plot to take over the world, and play exquisite corpse.
A Teacup Of Afternoon
The mirror gleamed and rippled, and a cat stepped out.
It stopped, puzzled, as it cast no reflection.
On the midday water of your bliss
The old hillbillies play bango, spit sweet and dark,
As it oozed through the night and met her ears.
It oozed like treacle tea, and tasted like toffee buns
If toffee buns were more like mud and
Burning coals were nose-cake.
The Existential Junky
The banknotes in our pockets have always been creased.
And very few come through that have not been rimmed with cocaine
And all agree that margaritas were better with salt
Except the salt, who loathed alcohol, especially when it tasted like fruit
Sticky-sweet, muddy-wet, fruity-bitter
Dirt-lark, grass-spark, fence-pole-sitter
With seeds scattered at your feet and a sprinkling of glitter
Like the spark of evil in David’s eye.
The Congress of Apes
And the chimpanzees took off their top hats and howled
To the moon about the bars which trapped them.
The moon simply whined. Obnoxious moon!
That bourgeois smile and those
Late industrial dimples, post capitalist nose
On an anarchist face with a socialist rose in its buttonhole.
But a giant capitalist bee sucked and sucked at the rose
And the rose got horny, and the sun still shone.
The Tramp & The Polar Bear
You ravaged my head like a polar bear
Finding her way through extinction
Lumbering like a tragedy, falling down
Like the old drunk whose beard was made of stubble and spittle.
He wandered the land, poking shrubs and yelling at lowflying bugs
‘You FREELOADERS!’ he’d yell at the mosquitos and
Throw shoes ineffectually till the sun went down
And fell into bed like the soles hitting the horizon.