Poem in Which The Noose Tightens

after Catullus 97-ish

Jesus wept. You really have to ask yourself
if you could tell his arse from his mouth
with all the shite Aemelius is wont to talk.
His arse is probably the better of the two,
not having so much bite. His teeth like ivory
piano-keys, his gums like welted wood.
Half the lies that man tells aren’t true.
You’d be as loathe to give him credence
as to breathe the steam off a mule’s piss.
Sure, he’s got a certain strut, gets on
like Jack the Lad (& thinks he’s some fella for it),
but anyone who falls for him would be as well
licking a hangman’s tightening noose.

Stephen Connolly


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