How The Ghosts of Them Cling

I glimpsed a young woman pushing a pram –
the tips of her hair held electric-red traces
fading through dirty blonde to mouse.

Carmen Monoxide – as she had been,
who, in distressed fishnet tights,
and slit leather skirts – no underwear,
sang in the Sisters of Asphyxiation,
and kids with gorilla snot purple mohawks
nostril chains and stapled ears
threw fists and drinks
and flegged at their mosh pit mates,
or jerked off in the cubicles
some sniffed coke,
some sniffed poppers,
wrestled her baby buggy
down along Busted Avenue
heading to the Money Shop.

She had to cash a pay-off cheque
from the mum and dad of the latest bloke
who, like all the rest,
bit her breasts, bruised her thighs,
spat his spunk and left her high and dry,
beneath whose kids,
and ‘No Frills’ bags,
she was daily crucified.

A shoulder tap in Money Shop,

“Weren’t you Carmen
from the Sisters of Asphyxiation?
I used to have you on cassette
until the cat went and tangled it.
All the blokes were after you,
and, some women too,
was it fantastic on the road
back in the day?”

Carmen Monoxide – as she had been,
who, in distressed fishnet tights,
and slit leather skirts – no underwear,
sang in the Sisters of Asphyxiation,
wiped a ‘fly’ from the corner of her eye,
smiling at memories.

“Okay… it was… okay.”

A cookery show played on TV
Carmen Monoxide – as she had been,
sat on her red vinyl sofa
picking at a packet of salt ‘n’ vinegar
after a cheesy toasty

She had a cushion to finish,
exquisite black silk
with Japanese leaf motif
worked out in gold.

She licked a thread
and pierced the needle eye
at the moment that Mountbatten,
older brother of Lincoln,
and new-born baby Kennedy
snivelled into the room
heavy nappy ankle bound,

“Come here, sweetie, let me sort you out.”

Carmen Monoxide – as she had been,
looking fondly at her needlework
sighed it away for another day.
 

 
 

 

 

© coolhermit 2020
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Sweetwater

You have such a talent for this down to earth gutsy writing, telling how life ‘in the raw’ can be but without making the reader condemn the main character, and even make us relate in some way to them. Sue.

Sweetwater

Had to grab my trusty dictionary for this, to my shame I had no idea what didacticism was but now I can say I do 🙂 I agree with painting a picture to share observations that’s what I enjoy most in a poem. I find a lot of the open mic type of poetry is far too fast and angry. Most of the time I have no idea what the speaker is even saying, there was one girl in the writers group I used to go to who wrote that type of poem and she read several out, mostly they… Read more »

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