Night-time

Night-time,
sitting on my night-line,
night-shirt
sweating with the exertion
of brushing mouldy teeth
glistening in glasses
and trashy novels
lying beside my bed.
With dead hamsters
and gerbils
going around in the gutter
and I utter an obscene cry,
"Why do I have to be a nutter?


Shut away from the un-seen, unclean world
and the sordid ice-creams
served in laboratories
where frontal lobotomies
are performed on unsuspecting coelacanths."

Back to my smelly pants
and the stink from my socks
which would destroy a tenement block
and could get me sanctioned by the UN
for being a potential weapon of mass affectation.
That's the problem with synthetic fibres
and the vibrations of a whole day's loafing.