Revolution

The concrete block unit set
Cold by design inside and out.

Faded tunes.
Credence reviving
Fleetwood unmasking,
The Stones, Mick’s strutting
The Beatles just let me be, singing.
Distant ambulance wailing,
Sleeping sirens 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 wreckless tennant:
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 opaque glass front door shrieked,
The gruffness asked where was she.
The back door in gaping askance answered.

As she helped me from the hot crevasses,
Of the bloody stained pillowed lounge,
Useless in comfort or as a bed,
In her, softness asked if I was okay,
The night I then just wished away.

Unforgettable words her senior stuttered,
As he swished the air with the sickle,
He had discovered in the cupboard.
They were a dirge, yet also 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 STDs and seek condoms,
In the fears of my past and in quiet terrors,
I keep a sharp eye out for slashing sickles.