A poem by SAM HUDDLESTONE.
When handfuls of human teeth
are spat out of Earth’s warming
belly –
with all the speed of
a mounted bicycle wheel –
spinning when spun –
they clatter against
glass shop fronts in what the
newspapers call a
‘holy
percussive
splendour.’
Older necks crane idly from above
dropping down and
‘what the hell is that?’
dances in the street to the sound
of enlightening and enamel frailty
are soon stopped with too much force.
The policeman, who refuses to be one,
removes his helmet and prays solemnly
to Apollo;
the famous librarian shakes
a wrinkly fist at an image
of Diana, and tracks the cringey way
it’s all been adopted not quite right.
I try to kick through the
brick but only provide
a rhythm stronger –
a boot clattering cements –
a tooth led orchestra –
in such a way that it’s difficult to move.
Featured image courtesy of unsplash.com
