04-03-2016, 02:03 AM
Just the two of them now
Edit 1
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house
an old photograph was all I had to go on,
self seeded plants softened the cracked paving slabs
but the driveway was still black and white.
Uncle Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
his face was gouged like sculptors clay
thin lines under cheek bones
and thumbed deep into eye sockets.
The meniscus of old age had bottled his vision
but he still had a Whiskey gruffness in his voice
that reminded me of forgotten songs and pearl inlays,
each one made to fit the only three chords he could play.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he moved around the room to his chair,
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk,
stroke is such a gentle word.
The room had kept hold of its memory's,
veneered in dust and damp that crept up from the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath
to make the sounds.
One word at time
he told me he much he missed my mum.
“She
was
my
baby
sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell, farted
then lifted its head to sniff the air.
“He’s
fuckin
farted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand.
Original
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house
an old photograph of me squatting in the garden
with a washing up bowl, holding a model of Stingray,
a blue hair pin replaced its snapped off periscope.
The driveway was still black and white.
Uncle Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
thin skin had fallen over bones
like a wet bed sheet on the back of a chair.
The meniscus of old age had bottled his eyes
but he still had a gruffness in his voice
that reminded me of forgotten songs and pearl inlays,
each one made to fit the only three chords he could play.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he move round the room to his chair,
touching each ledged like a child learning to walk,
Stroke is such a gentle word.
The room had kept hold of its memory,
veneered in dust and damp that crept up from the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath
to make the sounds.
One word at time
he told me he much he missed my mum
“she was my baby sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
Sparky his old Jack Russell, farted
then lifted his head to sniff the air.
“he’s fuckin farted again”
I know I said, letting go of his hand.
Edit 1
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house
an old photograph was all I had to go on,
self seeded plants softened the cracked paving slabs
but the driveway was still black and white.
Uncle Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
his face was gouged like sculptors clay
thin lines under cheek bones
and thumbed deep into eye sockets.
The meniscus of old age had bottled his vision
but he still had a Whiskey gruffness in his voice
that reminded me of forgotten songs and pearl inlays,
each one made to fit the only three chords he could play.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he moved around the room to his chair,
touching each ledge like a child learning to walk,
stroke is such a gentle word.
The room had kept hold of its memory's,
veneered in dust and damp that crept up from the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath
to make the sounds.
One word at time
he told me he much he missed my mum.
“She
was
my
baby
sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
His old Jack Russell, farted
then lifted its head to sniff the air.
“He’s
fuckin
farted
again”
I know I said,
and let go of his hand.
Original
I wasn’t sure I would remember the house
an old photograph of me squatting in the garden
with a washing up bowl, holding a model of Stingray,
a blue hair pin replaced its snapped off periscope.
The driveway was still black and white.
Uncle Arthur’s skeleton opened the door,
thin skin had fallen over bones
like a wet bed sheet on the back of a chair.
The meniscus of old age had bottled his eyes
but he still had a gruffness in his voice
that reminded me of forgotten songs and pearl inlays,
each one made to fit the only three chords he could play.
Pyjamas protruded from under his clothes
as he move round the room to his chair,
touching each ledged like a child learning to walk,
Stroke is such a gentle word.
The room had kept hold of its memory,
veneered in dust and damp that crept up from the carpet
slowly making it hard to see, hard to remember.
He spoke in bursts, bending each exhaled breath
to make the sounds.
One word at time
he told me he much he missed my mum
“she was my baby sister”
I know I said and took his hand.
Sparky his old Jack Russell, farted
then lifted his head to sniff the air.
“he’s fuckin farted again”
I know I said, letting go of his hand.
If your undies fer you've been smoking through em, don't peg em out