66 Madlock Road.


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1. Madlock Road - Poem

You were a runner,

popping holes.

Bursting through plastic sheaths.

Like your sliding down the birth canal.

Rebirth into the dregs

Skin the colour of egg yolks,

Separating from the jelly whites of your eyes

The perpetual flatulent smell of drain.

When you were five you had a pet.

You were all scuffed roller blades and balls.

A half squashed rat call Sid by the bins.

He lay in a romantic reclined stance, squinty little eyes.

By Tuesday he was gone.

You begun to cry.

A firm educated hand swung across your blue veiny arse cheek.

And this is what they call being alive?

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