Dennis Tomlinson

by Horror Sleaze Trash on November 20, 2012

I am a scholar of German literature, reduced to stomping the streets of England as a postman for a living. I find inspiration in everything! “www.poetrypf.co.uk/dennistomlinsonpage.shtml” for more.
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A Dream of Frogs

I looked into Maria’s garage: two huge frogs, greenish-brown, were hopping all the way towards me. The male frog chased the female through the conservatory and up the stone steps to the back garden.

As we watched, they started a kind of courtship dance on the grass. Although their skin was rather brown and lumpy, Maria assured me they were frogs, not toads.

The male frog broke off his dance to hop towards me and look up. He acted inquisitively with even a touch of boldness.

Then one frog made for the flower bed, followed by the other. Each creature squeezed out a pile of moist excrement there, an astonishing sight. The faeces started to smoulder and glow and to let out a sweet scent.

The frogs, though, were not troubled and carried on their courtship dance. They started to mate on the grass. We had filled in the old pond years ago.

 

 

Waiting

 

 

When I was a boy

I could not shit,

I could not shit,

I could not shit.

 

For seven days

I could not shit.

My mother fretted

Like a ghost.

 

They fed me bran

And pink granules

But day by day

I could not shit.

 

The doctor donned

A rubber glove,

Revolved his finger

In my arse,

 

But he could never

Find the turd

Nor fathom why

I could not shit.

 

After a while

Some fresh brown squit

Sneaked past the block

And came to light –

 

So there was movement

In my bowels.

‘Oh good!’ my mother

Gladly said.

 

The fundamental

Fact remained:

For fourteen days

I could not shit.

 

 

And then it came:

With little pain

A fossil sausage

Dense and grey,

 

Mucus-coated,

Slipped away

Into the welcome

Of the bowl.

 

Now I could shit

And all were glad.

My father killed

The fatted calf.

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