Revolution

The concrete block unit set

Cold by design inside and out.

 

Faded tunes.

Beatles let it be.

Credence revived.

Stones never sated.

Fleetwood unasked.

Wailing sirens an awakening.

 

A Stench or two of day old rubbish,

Whisked all together with blood,

Musk, spilt bourbon and diet coke.

Iced with lemongrass scented shower soap.

 

A threadbare floral carpet.

Ancient dishes piled high.

A demented toilet door,

A cemented laundry floor.

A toolkit of a tidy tenant:

A rake, a pitchfork, a hammer

And for Christ’s sake a sickle.

 

The bright morning flowing.

The front windows undraped.

The mousey neighbours nosey.

The dark blue policeman’s uniform,

The gruffness asked where was she,

The opaque glass front door shrieked.

The back door in gaping askance answered.

 

As she helped me from the hot crevasses,

Of the wrecked red stained pillowed lounge,

Useless in comfort or as a bed,

In her, softness asked if I was okay,

Everything I then just washed away.

 

Unforgettable words her senior stuttered,

As he swished the air with the sickle,

He’d discovered in a cupboard.

They were a dirge, yet fickle.

‘Mate you’re lucky she hadn’t found this,

And has only slashed you with the knife.’

 

I’ve sworn off double shot bourbons,

Drunk women and one night stands.

But when dammed testosterone dictates,

Where others fear aids and seek condoms,

In the fears of my past and in quiet terrors,

I keep a quiet eye out for slashing sickles.

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