The Gods Create Enkidu

They poured out a thing of
beef stew, thrust in some
double helix pasta, then the
godless Aruru spat on the raw
mathematics to make something
new: a person for a payback:
you.

You parleyed to Jesus, fixed your
own Weetabix, cleaned up your mum’s
siege, garrisoned her against
Social Servitude, and whilst dicing
the Ur-game of the shoveller
you came close to not playing at all.

Most of your pikehood was spent
in the dogbasket and your Staffs
pulled you up on the fens fishing
for mice and in mottled fear of hawks.
You carried a beer bottle to collect
insects in. You didn’t know. Anything
you did was about plesiosaurs,
Stoli and mushy Ken at the chippie.

Even when you’d left
and leached blueberry and puked
against the fencepost, you weren’t ready
to wick yourself some perspective.
Halfway up a tree you heard an angry ghost
talking to you about destiny
but you blamed it on the ‘shrooms
and fell asleep like a clouded leopard
dangling your arms.

You roar trampily about
capitalists and protest signs
and shitting on airport runways.
The crumbles of the planet are getting too
blink to paraphrase, so you don’t.
You plaster them down, Craigslist yourself
a new joint, steam a tune,
nick some Tupperware. A hoe from
East Lane shakes your billboard; she’s
a fine fuck if not salvation.