SUMMER IS FINISHED - A POEM
by Sausage McKraaken, age 12

Summer is finished.
I reclothe,
Nylon fusing to red-hot
Sunburnt skin,
Concealing, for another year,
The evidence
Of a season of sin
(Eighty days of oily, public sex,
A willy wafting gently in the warm breeze).
I wonder if the grimy fingerprints
All over my body
Will fade,
Or will my friends and family
Be confronted,
Year after year,
With the bruises of my shame?

Summer is finished,
Yet I am still in the grip
Of salmonella.
Congealed bovine blood -
Drip drip drip -
Spots my favourite t-shirt;
You can trace its path
From my chin.
Or is it Pimm's?

Summer is finished.
My fingers are sticky.
"A Mr Freeze, sir?"
Thank you,
But no,
For I plan to spend the afternoon
Enjoying the trampolines on the promenade,
And I fear the sugar
May induce vomiting.
But I imagine such strenuous activity
Will give me a thirst;
In which case, on my return,
I may be tempted to purchase
A carton of cheap orange flavour drink.

Summer is finished,
And Autumn reclaims his throne
Of human bones,
A shot-ridden skull
Atop the headrest.
He stalks the twilit streets,
Shitting mulch as he goes,
His breath pure dejection.
Bigger boys lurk in the shadows...
They pounce!
I lose an eye
And my MP3 player.
Autumn calls them to his lair,
Where they cackle
And roll naked
Among the spoils.
The laughter has just begun for them!
But for us,
Alas,

Summer is finished.