by L. J. Hurst


Aunt Ada Doom
In Cold Comfort Farm
Whiles away her hours
In binding madness, fighting
Through solitude for the family ties,
Through ignorance.
The family bound about
By ties of kith and kin
Like the african or german state,
So closely bound, like Cain and Abel
That incest is in every glance.
This is raw nature, 'tis
The dung of the earth, never returned,
Like Flora, seed of the womb.

All her sons,
Brother, sister sons,
With the raw edge of celluloid,
Processed film.
Reading Yank mags, eating chocolate,
Blindly driving home the cows,
Some think dreams a reality,
And some simply lose their way.
Like roads they kick out,
As a drunken metronome,
This side, that side.
Sprawled out with an animal face,
Slumbering with back-ache,
In the padded chair.



Note: This first appeared in IPSO FACTO: An IPS Anthology, General Editor Robin Gregory (Hub Publications)

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© L J Hurst 2003