Poetry

Grim Street Music – for all your musical needs

Every time I try to practice with my violin,

the world goes rather peculiar,

 

as a funeral march sings out of it

and humanity drops to its feet.

 

My pet mice love it, they get to

dance freely out of their cage.

 

The owner of the quaint music shop

where I bought it did say the wood

 

it was made from came

from an unconventional source

 

before turning back to the coffin

that was the sales counter.

Poetry

The Waiting Room

A kettle boils somewhere in the house.

Cold. Distant. An echo.

A woman in a black veilĀ falls

into the wash of the waterfall.

Whispers in the front room,

a herd of puppets

knocking in to each other:

frequent looks to the wooden case on display.

 

Tink, tink!

 

The herd’s attention is drawn,

as the kettle shrieks,

to a single speaker whose vague body

just about distinguishes itself

from the bled-out decor.

Dry words. Pale words. Words said with a wry grin and frail voice.

Lost.

All at once, the herd vanishes.

 

The kettle gets poured.