Somewhere amidst the crumbling of witches,
have you forgotten me?
Damn loud in late-night movies,
weeping into healthy apples,
drenched in order to elbow the boundaries
that be glaring under cars in the only society,
no doubt feeling you do everything she can't.
But didn't you scramble him a cigarette in the shower
before bingo took over breakfast,
somewhere amidst the little oysters?
I almost got caught in a watershed;
the silencing of toilet paper,
Momma scraping hell.
Guilt is a universe of gas.
Your warm body grew wet,
viewing this woman dreaming in surreal flicks.
Looking up you preferred the dark lipstick,
stapled her hand to butcher someone's soul.
The normal wee nude's not something that you need to call for -
just a chaingang of the information to get yourself started with the dove.
She thinks of the beauty of food.
You can't keep it from your mother!
© Gerald England
Composed: Gee Cross, 13th June 1993
1994 Oasis (UK)
1997 Poetry Lounge (Internet)
Flowers at Fleetwood
2 months ago