Tuesday, June 08, 2010

Tue Poem


TEA DEATH

When he passed out into his tea
he expected to wake up with his nose
warm and wet, lungs topped up
with Earl Grey, snorting

tea leaves which would gather
in the distant networks
of his blood. It might be a relief
to drown that way and not

in the fine wine he'd ploughed
an expert front crawl through
all these years. At tea time.
Splashing through Lapsang

towards scones even angels
fought over, where the Earl himself
would face him at table,
and they'd grin at each other

so hard that golden liquid
would strain through their teeth,
leak out under their nails,
from their ears, tear ducts, nipples

and then – if they laughed –
spout from their wobbling
belly buttons like the outward
breaths of whales.


by Jo Shapcott






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