Cry of the dinosaur

(insert your best velociraptor
impression here…)

I thought I’d try something different,
something to get your knickers
around your ankles
and your dicks hard…
Maybe drop in a line
about
the sky rolling over
to welcome the ground
whilst the next stanza
hides
around the corner
waiting to clip your wings.

Here I am,
coffee in my right hand
a cigarette waiting to be smoked
in the other
waiting for this poem
to be over,
but I can’t burn it
like I’d like to;
everything is too damp.

Sometimes it’s impossible to not
think of myself
as canine faecal matter
in a precious flower bed.
I once again become distracted…
Nothing was planned
I just clicked
‘blank document’
It could be worse,
I could end with one.

I would stop it spraying out
like the post-effects of an enema,
but why?
Why not sit here whilst fingers trace
parts of the body
and the coffee gets cold.
I look down at the lonely cigarette
‘don’t worry kid,
it’s getting close.’

It’s warm enough now,
you suit those horns,
I can hit ‘publish’
and not worry
about worth,
typos, content,
semantics,
flow, effect,
because I just handed
it over.
No longer my poem,
problem
or penance.