Wafts is a Beachcomber type column where you can expect the unexpected...

POETS, my definition.

Poet. Is that what you call yourself?  Arsiversie-ists is my word for you,and pretty pillicocks all.  Yeah, I’ve heard you, you strungout shrugging flandan dins. What makes you special? Oh, yeah, you’ve got genetically tampered-with neckties with primate speech capacity; you’ve got a skinwrap of bioluminescent algae working your skin into twinkles. You step out of your jeans and plant a sapling in the crumpled round of each leg. I’ve seen your mouths in action in Bolton, Wigan, Liverpool, Wirral, all over the shop. According to you the sun has a fungal infection, Time’s on the fritz, and all the children of the kingdom held hands and were wound tightly onto an industrial cable spool before being laid on the sea bed between nations to fetch oil. I’ve shone down on your capsule-shaped face, me, a petrol moon kick-starting the psychotic stuff,the eventuality of audience going gooey with rampage and yeeha@flyswatter.mortality

I call you ‘Brisk Unit.’ Your poet’s breast ends, like bacon, in a rind.

Look at you now, standing there like you’ve got a gut full of handshakes.

Poet, you are part of a coterie of little matchgirls striking a poem and warming yourself on the bobbing flame –  a flame ramshackled with momentary illusions which you flag up as being more true than wowee.Oh yes, you and your teeny, soot-spilling shank of burn are like some kind of eco-system Santa or tranquilized bomb.  Poet, you have gone by many names but today you were ‘Half Price’ -- I saw you shrink-wrapped on the gammon carousel at Waitrose, your fat in circles round you like a hoopla rod. And on and on you’ll rant till Death the Chiropractor culls your valley calcium, manipulates your cranial sac and turns your plush into a single seater.

You think of yourself as shine but all you do is raise a blur on a rubber sheet, no conferring.

POETRY, a definition.

It is bushmeat from the Forest of the Night.