Me and the Ant go way back, ever since we discovered
our mutual Achilles’ Heel: coffins made of steel: Lifts.
He’s not a big fan of car boots either or small caving tunnels,
so the Thai cave rescue would not have been high
on his agenda. One thing’s for sure: Ant is an SAS commando
& instructor and if he can’t handle lifts, what chance
have marshmallow men like me got? It’s in my Will:
‘to be cremated’; just in case
You could hear them growling
as they came up the street
bristling with fury
mumbling obscenities
the long angry pair of trousers.
They were rumpled.
They were crumpled.
They had had a bad night.
They did not want to be there.
On him.
Anywhere butt.
They were positively scopophobic
but he didn’t get it.
so they squinched his anatomy.
soiled the cuffs.
Had he not noticed?
But they were all he had
So he wore them
Those long angry pair of trousers.
So far I’ve dodged the bullet
The Damoclean sword
But I know it’s coming for me.
I have its word.
It’s waiting in the rafters.
It’s waiting in the pews.
It has interminable patience
& that is not good news.
It knows my area of weakness
My Achilles heel.
It’s waiting for me to slip up.
It knows I will.
It will not be beaten.
It will not be assuaged.
I open the door tentatively.
It maybe in the yard.
John Malone 