Bearded Lady of West Sussex
Joy is a bad bush;
she needs a buzz on the sad side,
a face-lift of painted face masks
sequestered amongst hays and lowing cows.
She pinches teats of witch’s milk,
squeezing summer between her thighs;
drop of lemon-lime and bumblebees
spiral musical organs of slow ragged
blues that shred lullabies left behind
by a serenade of smooth stubble
on a girl’s upper lips.
I unearth her in a warm bath.
A jetsam of pepper and almond sneezes
floating tapestry on a sternum of
gigantic dwarves and consuming
the elephant body of uncensored paint-suit
of silver lining, peanut shells,
tools which uncut string medicine
from its ginger patch.
Then the Centurion leap
giggles of blinded blinders
and spun cobwebs
fly her on wing-catch
lest she moans with glorified condemnation
shrink on a leather couch, mouse breaks back
manicured mess swinging
a noose for good hypocrisy
for the fragile molasses
minds of God’s rehabilitation dream
in a temple that sheds
corporate goodbyes to two spoons
and a hard stool of irritable
bowel syndrome with a shaved
golden peg under the tent
with the rise of applause and roar
of thunderous hooves in lion’s dens.