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Posted on April 29, 2011 at 5:28 AM

She lives with her ghosts.

Miró sits on her

Walls and walks her rooms.


She has Welsh Dylan

Thomas in her book

Case and sitting in


Her favourite old

Armchair drinking beer

From the Frigidaire.


Her father sits smoking

A cigarette, lung

Cancer no longer


A fear, there is no

Second death. Close the

Window, he says, there’s


A terrific draft

In here. She looks through

Ezra’s Cantos while


Walking back and forth

Muttering in a

Low breath. Ezra sits


By the fireplace

Reading Dante in

A creaky chair that


Belonged to her late

Mother who never

Makes visits. While she


Is making love to

Her young hot lover,

Picasso sketches


On a pad with his

Pencil, humming some

Stravinsky theme and


Bukowski looks on

Reading his poems

In his usual


Drawl. She is seldom

Alone, there’s always

Someone there talking


And walking, standing

And staring, last week,

Her grandfather came,


Pipe and battered hat,

Talking of the Somme

And lost friends and the


Beer bars he used to

Run in the East End.  

She lies in her bed


Beside her lover,

The sex over, with

D H Lawrence on


Her other side warm

And cuddly, beneath

The bed cover, he


Lectures, spits and coughs,

His hand on her thigh.

She shakes her head and


Gives a sigh, gazing

At Miró on the

Wall and hearing his


Footsteps in the hall,

Knowing they’ll follow

Her to the john, one


Of them, Lawrence, Pound

Or maybe Kafka,

Just to see her sit


There with messed up hair.


Categories: Terry Collett, Poetry & Lyric

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