Inside this coat I am the incinerator
letters and bits of word strung
from sinew and wetted nerve
the smoke is thick; stings
the throat - sweats the eye
my brutish light roars.
You, daft blue and cold, crawl in
like the silliest Hansel
you crawl in and dance a fine ash
where there was the whitest white
now smoulders a charred whisp
Inside these shoes I am two pistons
pressing out letters, sheets of words
stamped in endless repeat
cobbled bits from deep earth
the slabs - flat and clean
my loud steam toot-toots
you red and round roll in
like the greenest of apples
you roll in and smash your atoms
where once you were great fat
now a slew of marrow and pulp
Inside this hat I am the wailing skillet
searing chunks of letter, wad of word
consuming all in front of me
cold iron untill spit red and scream
stink of fat - smoke plumes
yes, Whistling work
you wide eye and rude
head on over to see the fuss
fall right in, eyebrows, nose, the lot
cooked before anyone knew you gone
a severed head, plated and ate
