I don't like the Settee take it back
By Ivor Griffiths


On the front step, in fizzy rain a squatting anorexic with short dark hair, chin on knees, arms hugging her shins, rocks. Pink eyed inside a grotesque landscape like a brutalised dog, empty faced, with grim lips, white and straight. Shouldershunched - only hearing sounds, no words or tense.

The silently raging character, his lips moving fast, hands rammed down to baggy knees, pacing, rips a hand out of his pocket whirls like a rat points like a gun dog. His grim lips white and straight: stops.

Her hands close her face, she shudders like a snake in snow, he turns away hands raised, then slouching, sighs.

Paradoxically, in that landscape he found salvation.

Poetics Home
Short Stories
Blog of the Poet
Contact Me