Boris’s Holiday by Jonathan Taylor

I am not a silent poet

The only thing they have got to do is clear the dead bodies away.
– Boris Johnson, 2017

A skeleton straightens a bow-tie in the hotel mirror behind him.
On the beach the bikini undead block his way. He steps over them.
Spectral sandcastles are crushed underfoot by ghostly children
stampeding into transparent waves. A corpse proffers an ice cream
but his hand passes right through it. Nothing is real apart from him –
or so he thinks, till he finds his five-star evening meal already gone,
devoured by wraiths with bullet-hole eyes, laughter like machine guns.

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