Slow Worm

by Aidan Andrew Dun

(c) Graham Hall

This long
elastic man
stretches himself
through green
undergrass in
two directions.

Not giving
away destinations
sub-serpent
he elongates
northwards
elongates south.

Burning a candle
at both ends
he seems
easily the most
flexible fool
in paradise.

Sinuosity
his religion
miniature
penis perhaps
he is bishop of
subterranean joy.

He does
forgive.
Some cut
him down
to size: the
steel women
farmer’s wives.

But still he
dispenses oxygen
from inner space;
mysterious naked
tunnels travelling
laterally.

Are his riches
this black gold
through which
he slides with glee
in danger of
exhaustion?

O no! We
are talking
professional
down here:
landslides and
property-crashes
are his meat.

His the acceptable
semi-human
face of decay
this apologist
for non-domestic
entropic chaos.

Versatility is his
middle-name
undermining
humility his
special technique
of entrance.

Segmentation
is his way of
being everywhere:
catch him on
a good day and
think of Francis.

Though he’s reduced
to burrowing
in subculture he
may yet be buried
with a twenty-one
gun salute.






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