Ok then, this especially for Gael, who thinks I don't talk sense but won't
explain why that thought occurs, this is a poem based on the _voice_ of an
ex-girlfriend of mine, but all the rest is fiction, 'cept that she had rows
with her sister (of a frequent kind).
And it has nothing to do with the war or politics but (heathens I mean
heavens above) it might actually be poetry. The piece is heavily italicised
but I had to drop that for this list.
Best
Dave
Dead Sister
Because I once scoffed,
Sweet Jesus,
at her two chord plonking,
her Dance with Him the Lord.
Because,
raw, pussy-claats,
in the spring of our Year Twelve,
under pink-laced white and frill-fringed
a grandmotherly coverlet,
two nigger girl dem touch
and pink lips dey kiss
bodies' beginning burdens,
the first roundings of flesh.
Because she fell
and split a skateboard
at the bottom of a hill called Stoop
and left for me the blame
like a lost key
and the trouble with a boy named Amos.
Because she couldn't sing.
Because she cook bettah pea.
Because she walk behind me still.
Because she crawled by my side on the floor.
David Bircumshaw
Leicester, England
Home Page
A Chide's Alphabet
Painting Without Numbers
www.paintstuff.20m.com/index.htm
http://homepage.ntlworld.com/david.bircumshaw/index.htm
|