I Think This Was Just Before Maxwell Had a Breakthrough

God sat with his Mars bar machine and a pot of black coffee stirring.
The villagers had lukewarm foamy milk and temporary swans—sometimes penises—
and hang ups on “villagers” and religion. “This is free
from artificial colours,” he breathed; but it was not in scripture: they turned
the wind into a commune. “I don’t really believe
in anything”: two cappuccinos down
was Tim. “Well

can you believe this?” said the Mug
as it burnt him with a smiley. Ouch! God

was wired with plans without wires
and no plan. “Not sure how I tell them
about the milk,” it said to me as I stirred

in the pot, so caffeinated, was I,
it was like that time they saw Jesus in toast, my nougat soft.