Joke Book (extract) by Tom White

Let’s probe themes, demands tradition. Doesn’t poetry pass its imports
into less languid commentaries? They stiffen on vision:
Delia’s mum’s long parlour (bra is ample);
dad classifies home as sick hell, all weekend
in anger swears that ‘even if I frig her wet, flex her, say “my dear”,
carelessly comb my hair, she remarks that “he sends all men
the summer dance, he never wants to stay home for sex. Usually
he feels coarse boys back on the station. He calls to them, ‘get your kit off, fall on
it!’ Knobs on show, and such positions way past just a sigh!
Pa’s a column in some sexy page.”’ Get a car. I’m going to show
just whose son regrets the day these walls caused us to
stray far from home. Yes, you all hiss and yell at tit all your
gay rhetoric and you hope the next day she will get all the blame.
A kid comes in to hear (‘move over my dear’) rumours abound.
‘Who’s carrying on?’ ‘But I swear..!’ ‘Consider killing your one connection:
enter, lead her to a settee, offer smiles (“after you”);
be a disease, lay fate so soon upon the bastard. Erase her, mask the
pencil. Solace to you, day’s sin satisfied.
An éclair? After decent kill, men stay hopelessly sexual
danger prowling there. A cheque will donate income – see the amount?
Do your best and watch for the money. 1890
begins it, alright? I become impatient and see hell’s empire proffer demons
a symbol, it’s clear, to endless space with your corpse.
Just be sure she fell. Bullets kill – start increasing harm.’
The cock is large: he knows it. He pastiches you others pouring tears
and pours tea. The men may have passion but later they waste –
see Melnick on top, defiant of male violence. See the key appraise the place, her
skirt so near to her anus. Too hard. Dance the salsa
and I tell you don’t stop at all, and on him sew the cigar’s song. Don’t laugh about
a marvellous tableau of being done. Fast feet upon carpet meant only
he murmured ‘key’, a house leading you
teasing slaughter. Pterodactyl knee compound as gas
set an outer force: tradition. Come sell one. He bit her
lemon (big). If I can rig a wet dance… A long novel set on a supper table.