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LIVING WITH GHOSTS.

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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