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  You are @ HomeAdults Poetry


Source: Adults

Author: jonny graham

Title: Basement Fusion Poem.

The old woman ascends staircase warily,
dead inside these last ten years,
since death made her lonely,
and the scream of the pig, the writhing and jiggling pig,
is inescapable in her mind,
even though she moves from place to place,
she comes across it unexpectedly,
without warning,
and the colours are still as vivid,
as if it was only yesterday.

In numb death she finds no justice,
and the rain and the singing voices resurrect her faith,
the windswept streets bring her to the surface,
as she translates the thunder's rumbles,
wringing bony hands of aged translucent skin,
recalling the taut-skinned pink pig,
hung upside down in a side alley,
in her girlhood town,
on the way home from Saturday's piano lesson,
and the man, the purposeful man,
with a long thin knife, flashing in the morning sun,
as the bones of the old town hover round, with intent,
the old woman hears the mystic chants of tribal Africa,
soaking the air and drenching the streets,
as the pulsing porcine throat is grabbed and bared, made ready.

The girl stands transfixed,
one foot in the gutter, mouth agog, Saturday forgotten,
the old woman sees no justice, then or now, and hopes for afterlife,
as the pig, fettered upside down, wriggles,
and turns it's face towards the man,
as the knife is utilised with surgical precision,
and she always sees the crimson rivulets, now and then,
always hears the screams above her own,
drowning in her own personal recall.

This evening, a street kid pulled a knife on me,
I laughed, such incidents are dull and too familiar,
the kid ran away somewhere, mortified by failure,
Later, I accidently scratched my face,
while changing the time on the slowly dying clock,
I poured brandy down my throat,
and kissed the world goodnight, as the thunder growled outside the window,
I had no one to embrace, just the soft jewels of self-doubt.

I hear the parched laughter of the old woman, as she descends,
into madness, into the welcoming earth,
freed from the shackles that hold back the living,
as the young girl runs home, shocked, to the core,
babbling at her mother, placing ham sandwiches on kitchen table,
telling her not to be so silly,
but the scream of the pig lives with her, now and for evermore,
as I sit at the window in the dark, and listen to the hiss of summer rain,
my face is slightly scratched,
the stormy air is ozone fresh,
I am too cold and too alone,
and I think I hear the screaming,
starting up again.

Published on writebuzz®: Adults > Poetry

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