In My Imagination

In my imagination I have 16 nostrils, As you can imagine that’s quite a buildup of green snot, But it doesn’t matter because in my imagination, I have 16 index figures, each one with a little mouth, With razor shop teeth, perfect for eating bogeys, And at the base of my palm there are 16 little bum holes, Defecating with continuous aplomb the bundles of snot down my sleeve, In my imagination there is a tramp living under my stairs, He lives off the dry goods, crackers, rice krispies and digestives, Only I know that it’s really an Indian yogi, Who sits whispering prayers to protect my affairs night and day, In my imagination there are 12 maggots burrowed deep in my brain, And they are eating my brain cells continuously, But they only eat cells that communicate information about Osteopathy, And other holistic therapies, In my imagination there is a fly who is desperately worried about his starving kids, So in my imagination on a night time when I’m asleep, He sits with his arms folded leaning in my ear and reads from various holistic health books, In an attempt to educate me on the arts of the healer, But it’s all in vein because in my imagination I’m tone deaf, In my imagination my face is a lofty building, A corporate situation or maybe a civil building, something like passports and immigration, The façade of this grey concrete building is flanked with many stairs, Row up on row of steep dangerous stairways, All leading to a small roof with a hatchway into my mind, And in my imagination all day and all night, Tiny men and women run from the revolving doors at the front of the building, And track nimbly and urgently up the stairs carrying important documents, One after another with anxious faces they, tight footed, make their way to the roof, And in my imagination they disappear into my mind to deposit their paperwork, Tragically it all gets overlooked because in my imagination there is so much red tape, That government officials can never push forward with their plans, In my imagination dead things don’t rot, Because in my imagination instead of decaying corpses become lighter, They become so light that they begin to float like helium balloons, So in my imagination the skies are full of gently bobbing cadavers trailing into the sun,