Refuses to Smile. I Hammer his Lips.
Low Expectations is his favourite
I am a specialist surgeon of his vital parts,
blowing up his skull on a poll of electric wires.
I replace his intestines with a second hand car engine,
cheap oil mixed with blood donations of mud.
I rev up his pulse; he screams. My foot remains
on the accelerator. Teeth rattle, eyeballs pop.
The tyres of his legs blow up under pressure,
partly dripping down the windscreen like rain.
He claims I make things up. I’m also singularly stupid.
I become a football, booted down the stairs,
bounding off the walls. My scream is a stereo,
heard suburbs away. My brother finally smiles.
If you have any comments on this poem, Gary Langford would be pleased to hear from you.