It’s always this way.
Carpets unlifted, dogs left sleeping,
stones unturned, the can of worms
hermetically sealed - silence from the top shelf
down. Open the door to dumb-town
where you have to eat your own tongue,
ruin and shame for dessert and you’re laughing
your head off in cheap cider and pilfered gin,
ring-a-ring-a-roses – we all fall down.
The once-upon-a-time heroes burn your eyes,
spread smiles like oil slicks,
throw jolly patronage like flowers,
unbutton dreams with dirty fingernails,
and oppress your days wearing unctuous faces,
their sullied sheets, as yet unwashed, piled high
among the hidden skeletons - the runaway train
about to poleaxe all the old buffers. Jeux sans frontieres –
but it’s you that’s skinned and shredded.
“I never touched her, your honour.
The rosy-cheeks of make-believe,
the sweaty crotch of let’s-pretend
the expectant fingers, inch by inch,
and never a sorry,
never a rue the day,
never a never a never a tear.
Lesley Quayle is a poet and folk/blues singer. Her latest poetry collection is called “Sessions” (Indigo Dreams Press), a scrapbook of music, people and the landscapes of the Yorkshire Dales.