Poolside Paradiso

He's a foam-batterer,
whose brain murmurs at the same pitch
as a hummingbird's wings.

He bends to dip his moustache in
egg yolk and scramble under the sun
on the lounger by his empty yellow pool.

Powdering his toupee with chlorine,
he dreams of swimming around 

in the exhaust systems of giant ships.

She is all straight edges and sits flush

against flat surfaces; being designed by a cubophile 

robot who spends Monday to Friday assembling cars for the Government plant

and re-soldering loose circuits in artists' and civil servants' heads.

She sets crosswords for the dyslexic
and writes songs on her glockenspiel
for the dolphins in Marine World.

The clock at Kidderminster flashes '18'
and the nuns from the convent on
hill come sliding down on
one hundred bright yellow banana skins.

A moose, seeing them and aghast on hind legs standing, 

mutters something strangely intelligible for this hour, 

at which he's usually quite drunk.