Thursday, 7 January 2010


She had a face like a five year old’s drawing,
And her skin hung around without knowing
That the pull of the earth was removing
Any trace of its previous youth.
But the appearance of cracks and deposits
Resembled an under read poet’s
Description of hell and its habits,
And eventually rendered the truth.

In the annals of someone’s last diary
Lies an appointment for cosmetic wiring,
Whilst demanding a separate inquiry
Into why nobody noticed her face.
And the surgeons who tried to restore her
Did all that they could without mortar,
While the nurses were appalled at the slaughter,
And wove bandages quickly in place.

So she was left with a clock that was broken,
And with hands that had long ago spoken
Of the time it can take to be woken
To the facts of a face without years.
And the gall of the woman was daunting
As she came round my house gaily flaunting
A mug that resembled a haunting
That had fled its own place out of fear.

And I tried to be quite diplomatic,
But the skin on her boat was too static,
To show any sign of life in the attic
As I asked her to find a new home.
And she was found later on in the river
Resembling an old boozer’s liver
With nothing that nature had give her
But a face that Medusa would hide from.

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