Wart.

Wart.



There’s quite enough that’s wrong with me.

Stuff you folk can’t help but see.

Passing peepers more than not

Mistake this wart I’ve got for snot.

Can’t alight on which is worse;

The nit-picker or kindly nurse

Like a hinky hanky might disperse

This parasitic, karmic curse.

Firmly rooted, smug it stands.

From its snotty dug-out, in command.

Tugging gazes, birthing doubt,

An interloper in my snout

Which no myope could overlook.

An artifice, a face forsook.

‘You’ve got something on your nose’

I don’t, I’ve got a dumpling beast that grows

And shrinks upon the moisture’s whim

Like a boisterous, nasal midget limb.

I’ve concocted an unnatural tilt,

Gesticulating ticks of guilt

To trick and stay the awful grub.

Downplay its kinship to a shrub.

Chicaning mirrors, slick contortions

Minimizing its proportions

Or hide it, feebly to insist

That panoramas don’t exist

And the proffered edge for all to see

Is one as edifice'd by me.

But that’s just ego cotton wool.

It’s that turd inside that swimming pool.

It’s that crater you can see from space.

It’s the occupation of my face.

It’s the cynosure of ruined front

It’s that guy upstairs who’s just a cunt.

It’s Bigley, it’s a cock-fight fray.

It’s impossible to look away.

It’s seizure of the not much cop

The receiver of some whistle-stop.

Abrupt and bare and always there.

It erupts straight through my nostril hair.

A leviathan come up for air.

It’s a forked and jutting self-aware

Pronouncement of my soul’s despair.