The ballad of Nancy Stokes

Clouds rolled in, all over the small town.
The air alive with the smell of chip shop grease and cheap aftershave.
Saturday night, alive and loud.
But not Nancy.
At least not by the end. Down in the canal.
Left to be found by old Mrs Clarence, off to the shops on a Sunday morning.
Her small dog Terry, sniffing at the banks where poor Nancy rested.
Her head covered in an old Tesco carrier bag.
But that night before, she’d dressed up to the nines.
No Tesco tiara threatened her styled hair.
Scraped back with mouse and anticipation.
For the dancefloor awaited, and the eyes were wet.
Leary sockets soaked in her moves.
The jostles and gyrations of decade old motions learned to entice.
To ensnare.
Those oiled men, with receding hair.
Nancy left her friend, who’d found Jesus in the bottom of a vodka bottle.
And then in the stall of the toilets which stank of desperation and piss.
With sticky kebab hands soiling her jeans and soul.
Where Nancy went, nobody knows.
But they left her her clothes at least.
Soaking in the green waters of the canal.
Where Mrs Clarence found her.
Nancy Stokes. The 40 year old girl who loved to dance.
But never learned to swim.

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Latch

The door is swinging, wide and heavy on its fastening.
Through it comes the night, the eerie mist of maddening intent.
The latch is forever broken, letting in the misery.
Sounds of hell and voices of those I love.
Or have loved, for the door does not discriminate.
It sends in souls and sounds that would rock such a fragile house on sticks.
Memories to twist and turn the rooms upside down.
And rain to lash at these windows inside.
Like tears on a mirror, slipping down the pane.
The latch unhinged, dusty and broken like an unwound mind.
Rusty and obsolete in its current state.
Squeaking it’s lament and apathy.
A quick fix, a drop of oil.
To keep the ghosts and the monster at bay.
Out in the other land of nightmares.
While I try to re-arrange this room of dreams.

Lurk

Malcontent to stop me dreaming.
A bitter play that keeps revealing.
Scenes upon a static stage.
A macabre heart for this new age.
For doubt replaces it’s bloody setting.
A pumping organ that keeps forgetting.
That you lurk inside this past.
A haunting ghost that always lasts.
And wades on through our murky trauma.
Pining for a love that former,
took the place you now reside.
And kills this love, you try to hide.