The grey ghoul on her wall
grins as if it were laughing at me.
She smokes because it is going
out of fashion.
Wind chimes in her hair
sandalwood burns on the windowsill,
and I watch.
Bucket in her lap positioned
on the sofa bed
directly in front of the TV,
this is where she spends her weekends.
The puppy licks her ankles.
Four theatre masks lit in four flouro colours
watch over her,
wondering why Im here.
Four pairs of black shoes
wait for her at the door
next to the dog meat.
Her fridge is empty
except for the cans of Jim Beam
and the cowboy shots.
She needs nothing
and wants no one.















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"As for criticism, do it in good time; don't get into the habit of criticizing only after the event." ~Mao Tse-Tung
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