17 November 2015

A Witchy Prose Poem: While Barney Blows

No, I don't know what a prose poem is either. I'm just using it as an excuse for posting an incoherent bit of something I've whipped up while Barney does his stuff.

"Rolled in yellow light. Wading through carpet in slippers as heavy as hiking boots. Surrounded by hissing appliances. The television whispers to the low watt light. The PC sings with the central heating.

Entombed in warmth, biscuited, enveloped in cushions. Maslow’s needs met, Witchy rages at her privilege. Gifted with all, her blood slumbers, her arse grows fat, and her neurones numb.

She knows. Do not think she is unaware of her unearned luck. A saintly previous life can only explain this comfort while Barney blows outside.

Would that this safety could lighten her heart. Make her eyes shine, not close them in afternoon drowse. Somewhere there must be some edge, she rails in the middle of her sofa. This could go on forever, until next year at least.

Cocooned, mummified, stopped for the winter.

Barney shoulders into a window. The hem of a curtain sways. The corner of the witch’s eye notices.


Outside is dark and silvery cold. It rolls past.

She draws aside the curtain and looks through its pane of glass. Rain rivers down the lizard skin road of a bruised night. Diamond studded cars glisten.

She looks back over her shoulder.

Facebook looks back.

Twist, push, the window is open. Out. She is out. Her breath is taken away. Shoulders round protectively. Skin bites. It feels good. Slippers soften. Feet wet.

There is a roar like a Portuguese wave. And she joins it, dancing down the road. On an edge. An edge of suburban sense.

Let her go. The hissing yellow house will always be her home."