Paul Vaughan /Nigel Farage (Astronaut)/ & /Charles Bukowski Ate My Hamster /

Nigel Farage (Astronaut)

We wondered.
We really fuckin’ wondered.


How many helium balloons would it take
to send Nigel Farage to the stars?
He didn’t say much because we had him gagged
and dressed in a clown suit with a note taped to his head saying WANKER.
We tied strings to his legs.
Ten, twenty, thirty. Forty. Fifty. A Hundred.
The only sound the hiss of the gas.
And some incomprehensible muffled screams.
On three thousand, eight hundred and eighty-seven he slid out of gravity
up up into the black hole from whence he’d come.


He flew.

Charles Bukowski Ate My Hamster

Charles Bukowski ate my hamster, Charles Bukowski wore my hat
Charles Bukowski screwed my mistress, Charles Bukowski stole my cat.
Charles Bukowski crossed my gender, Charles Bukowski scanned my rhymes
Charles Bukowski knew the truth and Leonard Cohen told my lies.


Conversations with the living, conversations with the dead,
the poets sound the oceans, the echoes in my head,
the future tensed within me, the lines you’ve never read,
so sit with me, break bread, come on and talk to me instead.

Paul Vaughan lives in Yorkshire with a sneezing cat.  His poems have cropped up in Agenda, Bunbury, Seventh Quarry, The Open Mouse and Picaroon Poetry, among others. When not scribbling or trying to pay the bills he moonlights as Editor of Algebra of Owls.

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