A Genius and his Fish

Child Genius and his Beloved Fish

"Mackenpar!"
This is what he shrieks
to ward away the Sally cats
living in the fridge.

"Sullowleelay,"
is what he hums in meek-bright welcome
to the black-currant pixies
that dance like exploding black holes
on the ceiling of his underwater shoe.
Black and red slingback, Manolo Blahniks.

Life is bleak, locked in a shoe-
you're prone to getting caught in an OCD loop:
Close left eye, open.
Close right eye, open
watching a kestrel through the window
stiff as a corpse,
each vision flick
giving it just enough time
to open beak, hook a claw
until it turns into a skinless man
then back to a lamp-post.

After a conversation with a passing sea-crow
Father comes with pills,
plates of food arranged into smiling faces
that only leer with shrill pitch.

However, daily a gangly prostitute
with blotchy silicone lips
ambles past the house.
Then, with purest delight
he bounces at the window-ledge to roar out,
"Fish!"