a small folio of poets : engerland
Dimples
Dimples eats from the trough of the world.
He tampers with the thermostat so we think we have
malaria.
He boils up cabbage and calls it a sauna.
He squirts the toothpaste deliberately on his lips.
He sours the milk with his hairdryer.
He pulls up a chair and stands on it to treat us to
The Wisdom of Dimples, e.g.:
(i) never judge a book by its bookmark
(ii) never keep a box inside the box you’re
keeping it in
(iii) if you lie
down with biscuits, you’re going to get crumbs
We gather in the garden at dusk, while Dimples works
on his novel.
I’m fed up with
Dimples,
says Dimples’ brother, whose name is also Dimples.
I too am fed up
with Dimples, says Dimples’ sister, whose name is also Dimples,
or the female equivalent of Dimples.
I am similarly fed
up with Dimples, I say;
I abhor Dimples
like the cartoon cat abhors the cartoon dog,
like the small
fish abhors the slightly larger fish,
like the lollipop
abhors the stick what sticks it.
Dimples’ brother and Dimples’ sister pause,
their soya lattes frozen midway to their lips.
That is exactly
something Dimples would say, they say.
Where is Dimples anyway?
His room is empty, his towel neatly folded on his bed.
The moon shines on it and the desk he sits at.
The Water-Babies, Charles Kingsley (1863)
From the Polka Dot Texts series, proportionally representing frequency of letter occurrence, ordered alphabetically.
