Author Information
Heart Mallet. Not My Poem will the Author Please Claim It
Jennifer sold out and stole my heart, then ran away
laidened with bags and bankers draughts. She
picked cherries from brittle stalks in plastic boxes,
and with grazed fingers lined her thin coat.
Now old records play with a back ground of sizzling
eggs and chips, and the little gold fish we won at the
fair, has swum backwards then half drowned. I have
stuck a safety pin in it's top fin for counter balance.
Our house has re-adjusted itself to less heat, it
only answers to me now, and the kitchen cupboards
hold an arsenal of Paracetamol in giant blister packs,
which I use for pillows.
Early mornings I walk to the park, and sit in a children's
play area on the roundabout, watching the line of people
develop into buses. Peeling church doors unlock to let
in religious cats and pigeons, with an opening ceremony
of thudding hymn books on pews.
My whiskers do battle with my chin, creating swells of
red alert, and I carry plastic bags full of her unwashed
clothes to breathe (sic) through for comfort. Whilst nosey
neighbours stare from net curtains at predicted down
falls like Victorien silhouettes.
With little faith I can build a championship of peculiarity,
and blow a penny whistle, to attract friends in white plimsoils
from card board cities and worm hole undergrounds. We'll all
throw our lives at the flames of a heartless fire in a dustbin,
I mean, I wouldn't want to disappoint.
