Dead Dishes

I’d need a JCB to prise
teastain from the bottom of this
greasy spoon heirloom. When it comes
to shitholes, I’m no Sherlock Holmes,

but fleas with their vaulting powers
make the cat their Alton Towers.
Don’t need magnifying glowers,
monocles passed round in wrappers,

to see scato-chateau ain’t sterile,
- the Algarve for C-difficile!
Dregologists’ microscopes peeled,
new stewed species charmug congeals.

I’m kitchensink Darwin scannin’
tannins. Only sure I’ve survived when
sleeve’s splished. Life I’m elbowdeep in,
elbows up to elbow creak in

deadman’s creek: means dirty dishes.
Elbows are pointless in an abyss,
thus washing-up is weird privilege,
before my elbowgrease creep gives.

The cemetery’s one Big Exit,
two grand entrances (know you’re not
if you think you are, death and thought
are opposites): come by cart

(fear of hindleg manoeuvres gone,
unless pranked by reincarnation,
karmic horsefly botherin’ Dobbin
- within the hoof hides the coffin),

or by car (fume flu, car nausea’s cured
in hearse if you’re guest of honour,
the Goner). It keeps on giving, the
gift of being taken forever.

& when I am Long John Goner,
will the loved one or do-gooder
who washes my dishes ponder
how grotty things got with horror?