It was when she was picking up Hillbilly
Cider, croissants and sour dough from the Arm and the Leg
Shop, that she heard
them talking.
They didn’t have names faces recognised quantities
known ingredients. There never were
anymore there was a lot she couldn’t
remember there was a lot she couldn’t forget.
But there were words here and voices there.
Hastily scribbled words fall-fall-falling
off the blue lined pages of the Spirax notebook.
But there were voices here and words there.
In the Arm and a Leg Shop she heard them
talking:
I’m over bodies and much more into pipes
and pumps.
Sometimes I just want to fuck you.
I used to do drugs, now I’m into homicide.
Even though she’s lost her head, she still
may have some leaf.
She heard them talking
she heard them
Yikes. Like a cocktail party of ghosts.
ReplyDeleteChilling! Gripping!
ReplyDeletelove your use of repetition, really good writing
ReplyDeleteThanks fellow poets - yes Rob it is a bit like a ghostly cocktail party or a cocktail party of ghosts, isn't it?
ReplyDelete