White-An Ode To The Achromatic

White is Whistler,

With a cloud of baby curls,

Walking Pomeranians.

White is quartz in an envelope,

Posted with the morning’s cold,

Like a freeze-dried tumor.

White is metal on the face,

Dislodging teeth, 

Coating the pox in a blanket of snow -

White is a blizzard, frilling the fins

Of Cupid’s bow.

White is lightening in the park,

Popping in young mouths,

Like the piss of a Red Delicious.

White is Friday night out:

Lads getting torn up with banknotes,

Roled as thin as a sinus.

White is bride, spunk, and egg,

Jellified and veiled delights

That men spoil or shoot or eat or throw.

White is gone, nowhere, nowt,

A cloud, a mist, a vapor.

White is absolute zero,

And we’ve all got a t-shirt.