Spunking Island

Far away from some city
Where hello is not a greeting
That gets ya teeth kicked in
Are Carbonated Clive
& Doltish Derek
Swearing like a minute’s compilation
Of months of morning excretion
Looked at for no reason.

The first time Doltish Derek & Carbonated Clive go out
On Spunking Island for a meal,
The server gazes gobsmacked that they put hand to mouth
And not because the food isn’t real.
It is, but no swallowing is allowed there.
Only swearing is needed to digest.
Digested are just the nutrients best
Considering what else has been sworn down that day.

When they are back, fox gazers sit on twigs
That prick up in the sun.
Gloved up, Doltish Derek tallies
Carbonated Clive’s gassy swears
With a burp gun
Fired in their steaming spunk growth spot.

Each shot plants what is to be
A syrup-petaled tree.
The erect twigs then flop and flee.
Absence makes the shoot sprout stronger —
With the scent of sworn echoes wafting down weeds
On top of singers that swing
Scimitars as their form of greeting.  

Recordings of spunked bushes slide down
From the deputy’s hard nails
Untangled from their blue.
Beauty walks a leaf’s edge,
Rides the mount of every preacher.
Derek’s & Clive’s stunning spunking sweat of the island
Defeats the grey-mouthed city monsters who say hello
With their sun-lotion like squirting swears 
That hoist H. Sapien arms until they’re
As strapping as those of bears.

Spunk juice fruits its magic spray in every pip.
There is no waste of this island’s white & clear tapped drip.

Terry Griffiths' poetry ranges in topic from crippling anxiety to another world where nothing bad ever happens. His crafting process can involve picking prompts, making blackout poems, and imitation. Terry is also known as Terrybyte on YouTube, where he uploads himself reading, often at open mic nights.

Find more by Terry Griffiths in the Author Index.