133/2023

He didn’t notice all
The crucifixes in her kitchen
Until one of them forced
Its way through his chest,
Crossed arms first, and
Pinned him to the wall. He
Didn’t die immediately; she
Needed to keep him fresh for
A week to feast on him.
Only now did her feathers
Unfurl from her skin, her
Nose shape itself into a hooked
Bill, still beautiful.
Shrike, his last word,
Five days later, when
He noticed the rust
On the other crosses,
And the bones littering
The floor.

R 13/05/2023 19:45

At last I’ve caught up with the transcription job, and today’s poem was composed into the journal rather than into a machine. That’s a relief. Now just to keep it like this. Been messing with the spoken word track that I meant to finish an age ago, and it’s still not done, although I’ve nowe managed to come up with some great D minor sound tracks against which to highlight the words. Lots to do tomorrow.

Thinking of A as she walks her double marathon for charity, and hoping it doesn’t get too cold as she walks through the night.

And now – Eurovision!!!! I hope Ukraine wins it again – time for more political statements on the European stage.