Tom Burgis - 'Beat Daddy'

Beat Daddy

Beat Daddy breaks the surface of the air
That has crusted to his body like a dust jacket.
When will his daughter of the red lips arrive
Exactly creases the skin at the corners of his eyes.
Rubbing jellied oil deep into his skin
He bumps his head on a doorframe that refuses
To contain him, breeding a slow violet on the temple.
She may not even come. He assaults a pork pie,
Pruning flakes of pastry from the grey meat
And showering soggy crumbs onto his corduroys.
And now, couched in the warped florals of the armchair
And the twitching murmurs of the evening swallowing itself,
He germs a sound on the back of fitted teeth
And burps it warm into the clotted air.

© Tom Burgis