The Peaches Poem by Paul Wilson

Oh book! you made me look (and relish)
- hellish fantasy and fugue!
They always said that you were rude
But Mozart always made me sicker
Sitting scratch upon the wicker.

‘The Peaches’ was your agent, shrouded
- wipe the glass before it clouded?
Grubby hands smudge virgin paper
Mrs Porter, wait till later…

Phallic symbols still are seen
Embodied in a tangerine
Piglets bloodied snorkel pocket
Fumbling lightbulb into socket

Dylan Thomas, why are you
Never to be spoken to?