Auntie Madelyn
Auntie Madelyn never married,
but she had a crystal bottle of Chanel
given to her sometime in the twenties
by a young accountant she toyed with.
By the sixties, it had gone off -
the stink could ward off skunks
while she lay sprawled with her pearls
on a threadbare chaise-long.
Time to time the Priest came round
for some scram and Assam tea
served in chipped chintz cups.
His nose was like a toucan's beak.
While he perched on a chair arm
trying to save Great Grandad's
whiskey sodden soul, Aunt Madelyn
stretched her feline limbs and slurped
her brew, her buffed nails became claws.
The brick red terraces were her territory,
she was a predator in the sequined fur
of her red flapper's dress.
When the priest wasn't looking
she'd shoot jets of stewed tea
through the hole in her front teeth
into his starched collar
-she was an ace shot.
"Eeeh Father!" her eyes rolling
like marbles, "I think there's
a spirit here not at peace, it's so cold
can't you feel it, Father?"
At night she coated herself
in quilts made by her forebears.
When she cried her tears ran
like a Turner watercolour
left out in the rain, the droplets
streaming in the rivulets of wrinkles
hidden by the thick façade of slap-on.
but she had a crystal bottle of Chanel
given to her sometime in the twenties
by a young accountant she toyed with.
By the sixties, it had gone off -
the stink could ward off skunks
while she lay sprawled with her pearls
on a threadbare chaise-long.
Time to time the Priest came round
for some scram and Assam tea
served in chipped chintz cups.
His nose was like a toucan's beak.
While he perched on a chair arm
trying to save Great Grandad's
whiskey sodden soul, Aunt Madelyn
stretched her feline limbs and slurped
her brew, her buffed nails became claws.
The brick red terraces were her territory,
she was a predator in the sequined fur
of her red flapper's dress.
When the priest wasn't looking
she'd shoot jets of stewed tea
through the hole in her front teeth
into his starched collar
-she was an ace shot.
"Eeeh Father!" her eyes rolling
like marbles, "I think there's
a spirit here not at peace, it's so cold
can't you feel it, Father?"
At night she coated herself
in quilts made by her forebears.
When she cried her tears ran
like a Turner watercolour
left out in the rain, the droplets
streaming in the rivulets of wrinkles
hidden by the thick façade of slap-on.
Page(s) 4
magazine list
- Features
- zines
- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
- Blithe Spirit
- Borderlines
- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The