Slurred Words Poem by Peter Swan

These words slurred from a postman’s hips,
make treacle cream from milkmaids lips,
just as the world turns square as a cardboard pip,
then gravity forms rings around the sofa.

If only I knew the secret to these words,
I'd arrange 4 wet mice into an icicle herd,
scratching the food from each others feet,
then maybe good weather would form from gold.

You can keep this insanity for a billion years,
then wipe dried tears from stale tea cups,
with crockery bought from burnt out stars,
and in the distance wild men loom, gesticulating