MR JENKINS

By M. S. Marshall

There’s a man at the door

knocking to come in.

He’s all recrimination

and teeth dripping with sin.

With the pallor of smegma

and breath on a rattle,

He’s got the walk of a man

with an axe for the cattle,

and the taste for sweet meats

kept under his tongue,

a dirty secret rotting

in each pull from his lung.

He savours the gelding

peeling testis like onions

docking tails, clipping wings

not a man for a bolt-gun,

too distant, too removed

too lacking in rip.

He’d miss the pop-pull

of a cock’s head in his grip,

the squeeze as it bloats

fat fleshy inches too far.

The Man with a taste for it,

lips chapped and ajar.

The Man they wouldn’t hire

at the old abattoir.

#DarkPoetsClub