Mutants by Nick Cooke

I am not a silent poet

Bursting out of our own skins, we

grow every second, unstoppable

as accelerated beanstalks, except

we are purple and yellow and not

especially thin, but contrary to rumours

we mean no harm. You can’t get a handle

on what our genesis will do for

world and atmosphere, since

we know no more than you what drives us

into being and twists our biology so.

We only know we’re abnormal

from hearing it a million times on your TV.

The more we multiply the more

normal we get, n’est-ce pas?

You see, there was you thinking we was dumb

just because the news implies as much;

but when our supersonic sprouting ceases and we

stand before the cameras as finished articles,

we’ll put out a press release aimed at

celebrating mutant culture and all

that’s gone into its hitherto obscure making.

That’ll be a pile of fun, will it not?

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