Rum Raisin (puerile visions) – David Hay

March 12, 2025

A treacle slapped hand cusps a tentacle adorned ear to a star being born in the fridge of God’s holiday home, south of where his first experiments covered their genitals with ineffectual shrubbery.

If morning tastes an eye, do shepherds caught dreaming cup loneliness by the balls? 

A man full of nonsense eats an éclair out of a wizened cherub’s butt crack. 

God does not find this funny. 

Jesus on his clichéd symbol, the cross, splutters blood across the mirror facing him. He smiles and is obviously relieved.

God doesn’t get it; to reduce his discomfort he magics up a bowl of rum raisin ice cream and shovels it down. 

Once he misses his mouth and pokes himself in the cheek with a spoon.

Jesus splutters some more.

I’ll send you back down there if you’re not careful.

The general and his mistress, the secretary, look on abashed and proclaim all of them disgusting perverts. The general has butter adorning the ends of his heavy-set moustache and looks a little like an anthropomorphised croissant. The secretary, desires always, croissants, even if they’re a little stale and cold. The secretary has flakes of pastry on their blouse. 

A fragrant pimple pulsates on a long forgotten demi-god’s nose. Pornography creeps with a pederast’s stare and syphilitic limp into the heart, tasting of so much oil slavered fish that sing a dissonant tune with their flapping gasps that make a boy a man and man a boy before awakening a haemorrhoid, one needle away from popping. It grimaces at his creator and commits seppuku.

I get up, make a coffee, get in an unfilled bath and cry, then smile and sit there for a long time naked. I spill coffee on myself and let out a panicked yelp. 

Coffee and cock do not go well together. 

Shows what you know says an effeminate man with a knowing wink.