Pick pick, the farage kite
tears soft underbelly
from an upturned
sheep too gorged
to stand.
Blood red pudding
spills on a white tablecloth.
It pools in silver spoons
as much as it drips from formica.
Pick pick. Lie
Lie. Until the red guts of
‘well you’re out’
come spilling out.
And redcurrent clots
and stains Ikea’s pure bright worktop
and walls of elephants breath
and chalky downs.
Pick pick, tear.
Divide.
My sweet ‘england lost’
‘forever friend’.
Clotted, blood red pudding.
You have a bitter taste today.
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