the dead turn their back
they don't want to know
no fox-trotting on the bristly WELCOME mat
no waltzing through Heaven's Gates
London calls at the top of the dial
drowns out The Clash, signals to The Jam
you've got a pocket full of pretty green
you're dreaming of Monday, seeing me again
I'm woken by tortured winds and stolen thunder
sticky fingers
brown sugar
wild horses
toppling, trampling
slap-slap-slapping
clawing at, gnawing at
the side of my face
I offer a battered brain, a collection of unpublished poetry
a series of blurred images of flashing lights train tracks flickering yellow posts
an antique pottery figurine of three wise monkeys with blackened out faces
but the dead turn their back
they're not ready
won't even accept a down-payment
'sticky fingers, brown sugar, wild horses' I love the imagery here as well as the rhythm, and so much more!
ReplyDeleteThanks Claine :) I enjoy incorporating lyrics and other found 'objects' into my poems.
DeleteYes. Dear Kristen. Very glad they're not interested. :)
ReplyDeleteThanks Rob - I'm glad they're turning their back too!
ReplyDeleteit can be hard to strike a bargain
ReplyDeleteThe images in this move me so much. 'The dead turn their back' is so haunting, and oddly hopeful!
ReplyDeleteThanks again Sarah - yes it is both haunting and full of hope - well spotted!
ReplyDelete