Porky, freckles,
fat with his flowers,
bouquets in buckets
the lay-by boy,
a bottle of coke, diet
with chocolate mice
and gingerbread men
all sit around, engrossed
( if a little depleted )
listen to stories, tall and wild
make you believe, it’s true…

They were born in the hundreds
And died in their teens
Now walking the earth
By night, In search of..
“a couple of quid , miss”
“for a sorry old rose?”
needs loving, Infection,
Fresh meat, Craving blood , All
Hallows eve….

forgotten the day
he married his love..
“quick! a tenner carnations”
should do the trick
eased journey home
As hell awaits, Axe in hand
Eyes glazed, Not a sound until
“how much?” a finger points
wavering, a price and a frown

Dragging his arm, Tendons mashed,
fragrant freesias, sad
they were the last, Limping
Through the graves
The scent of lilies, And death…

The hero, Tall,
Muscles ripped
Saves the day, The world, The girl,
Around his neck,
The softest kiss
On rugged cheek,
a ginger whiff
the crowd, thinning fast,
a gulp
, and washed away,
until tomorrow…

If you’d like to find out a bit more about this poem, click the link to the page “Explained” which shines a light on the background to each poem, or helps you to understand what the heck’s going on if you’re a bit baffled!

By cyncoed

Old & Welsh

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