Memorising The Big Bad
The Big Bad bequeathed a hogshead of Worst Times,
And that soured Superfund site, a heavy-metal-runoff adolescence,
On which to erect,
The box girder skeleton of poor boundaries,
On which to hang,
The pre-fab walls of a chaotic personality,
On which to pin,
The bitter artist’s saddest delusion:
That Lemonade will fountain,
From a dwarf lime, and a pilfered sachet of sweetener.
And thus arises the kind of misery,
Worthy of birthing vampires.
Joseph Robert detests poems about orchards and racists, not poems about racists, but actual racists. He is 190 centimetres tall, is a firm believer that the Guinness in Dublin is the best due to the rats in the vats, and drinks Bushmills whisky. He likes visiting orchards when the fruit is ripe.