DarkRoom

Assortment of grimed pots and plates,

email print offs planning dates,

soiled bed sheets and catalogues,

clumps of hair of cat or dog.

Chloroform on dirty rags,

stinking fly infested bags,

Whiskey dregs and stubbed out fags,

Maxim, Nuts and Hustler mags.

A prescription form for Methadone,

a worn out grimy telephone,

a female voice asks, ‘you at home?’

One hundred pairs of screaming eyes,

much celluloid of woman’s (inner) thighs

and tape recordings of their cries.

Weaponry in every size.

The Darkroom smelt of Arctic Storm,

the curtains looked a little torn,

            they hung there tattered and forlorn

as if anticipating dawn.

There was a wooden crucifix,

odd greetings cards and Pick and Mix,

a Christmas tree with candy sticks,

a magic set for magic tricks.

A rattle and a music box,

baby booties, cotton socks,

a picture book of Goldilocks,

Bart and Homer Simpson tops.

The neighbour said his name was Pat.

‘He seemed an ordinary chap.

He had a little kid an’ that

They had a long haired ginger cat.

‘I guess I’d say a ‘lady’s man’.

‘He drove a decorator’s van

‘He done the patio for me nan

And she don’t trust no one our Jan.’

‘You’re joking…really?

What’s he done?

I don’t believe he had a gun.

The same person? The Pat Wil-son?’

‘I can’t believe he’s on the run.

They can’t be sending him to jail,

arresting him’s beyond the pale

I see it in the Oxford Mail.’

‘Me garden fence could use a nail…

I’ll have him round when he’s on bail.’