Police Are Hunting Their Killers by Jo Else

This May Day dressed herself as hag,
And when she came,rained down unseasonal cold upon
Street barbies, brought murder to a bungalow door.
They lie together on the tarmac now,
Lukewarm in blood-specked macs.

A nan and granddad both cut down,
They could not make it farther than their drive.
Saved by the maniac’s gun from afternoon regrets,
From nursing fees, thick-whiskered lips.
Trips to the garden centre, trousers that stretch,
Saved from their final, catastrophic sex.

Jo Else

It’s no fun being a dyspraxic with a deficit visual memory. Imagine if Sylvia Plath had to do formatting- she’d have topped herself even sooner…. Poetry keeps me sane, the rest drives me nuts and I’ve won no awards. And there’s nothing wrong with Readers Wives, my Mum was one.


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