Slug

My brain glistens with memory of slug
who slavishly spirals my lobes
spreading his seed like syrup as he goes.

He wends his course precisely
coating sulki and gyri
a paintbrush adroitly driven
by each flaccid contraction.

Finishing he begins afresh
keeping his gauche whale wet with residue.
Maybe it’s his breadcrumbs or ball of wool
for the change of wind
that will rewind me to infancy.

Then at night without glint the world is his oyster.
Through an ear or pore he seeps uncoiling
my tethered pink sausages before him surfing
their red carpet. Only the moon
catches a hint of silver highway smeared
like a blurted confession. My bedroom
disgraced with shiny plump tubes as if Mondrian
forgot his canvas and ruler and took
his pencil for a walk.


13/03/01