by Lucien Quincy Senna

"Don't pester me with your rubbish!"

screeched my cruel cockney neighbour

whilst a squadron of wild hounds howled

at the door of my bolted shed door.


That's where I found her.

His "steady" or wife

had been left with frosty pails and kettles 

heaped up like a rusty nightmare 

He sent her out to catch her death 

Was she already dead or too weak to call for help?


All she needed was to be fostered

with another child

but his lemon galaxy of cinema beauties

who survive merely on a diet of cigarettes and fruit

eclipsed what should have really mattered.


"Love me long Parson." echoes her ghost

"Spin with me in that cathedral of Architectural prose.

Soothe me of those rotten diseases I caught in Thai

raw eyes, lepered feet, HIV."


They checked the temperature

of her liver to gauge

the time of her demise.

But I know that long before Dawn

he tossed her wings

upon my property 


The purpose of all this was to rid himself

of a remembrance he once harboured.

A bride for sale.