At the start of the day, a trip to the pub:
A strip of dried blubber in each finger of glove,
Leather and dry, she smiles with thin lips,
Rotten-log teeth and a thick, stinking mist.
Swollen feet in cute shoes, rubber soles on some scum-
Stained carpet like writhing, swelling, beer-soaked grubs.
An empty brick phone smeared by red and brown,
And down and down and down, she looks
Like a hag cast out by the coven of muck,
Through sad, dry pins in sockets of the skull,
Plenty thoughts drip out, over which she can mull,
And waste away, into dust on the tongue,
Of someone, laughing, far too young.
Little Miss Prindle
10/02/2023
By Alfie Sansom (He/Him)
Image by rhythmuswege
By Alfie Sansom