Scribbles and Strokes

The smell of fresh baked bread Clings to the baker's paling skin. The fluttering birds think he is bread. The soap does nothing. His wife waiting at night in bed Says he reeks of infidelity. He cannot explain that it's only his niece's hugs. The soap does nothing. The nights with the carbon's black Cling to the miner's weary hands. His daughter doesn't want her friends to see him. The soap does nothing. The stoic manager behind the icy glass Calls his money false. He can't explain that the blackness is only in his hands. The soap does nothing. Somewhere in a little farm A wife unsticks her husband's poisoned tongue. The debts still blacken the helpless hands. The soap does nothing. The government with its endless funds Cannot find the monocle that can look upon him. The money is black, in the hungry jaws, The soap does nothing.

They don't know the way of the world, these children. They smash their feet inside the glass slipper, Trying to become the princess, and wail. "Momma," they cry, "call the prince to me." Let them have their shrill hopes up, oh, For, those cherubims, little do they know, They'll never come for you, little glass shoe. Hush, child, what delusion is this? Do you not know that this love is not yours? It hangs above you like Eve's fruit, As red as your passion. But with Tantalus's reach, For gone are the days of godmother fairies Of midnight love and first sights. They'll never come for you, little glass shoe. So hack away, babe, make your foot bleed Your face will turn pale, but still that pasty smile Shall stay, as you dream of your Charming's face, Until you know, that his Grace Walks the garden with his true love. She doesn't need the slipper. Still you put on your impostor form, do you? But they'll never come for

The clock wants to say that it's way past midnight. The street is empty and silent; the dogs howl, sometimes, on their own. I wonder what they want to say, if anything at all. I am alone in my bed, calling for sleep and still living in denial. She sings madness to me. Her words are tuneless, like the staccato rhythm of nervous speech. But she is intoxicating, like the sweet pull of hemlock; her voice flows all over me, like the slow draw of honey. I do not understand her. What does she mean to say? I wonder when she stuck her head in the oven, looking for heaven, that day, had she been wild haired? Had she painted her lips that morning? What colours had the curtains been? The God she sought must have been cruel to keep her hanging, like a marionette snipping at her own strings helplessly, uselessly. But she is long gone now, you know it. Or is she? For her words I do not understand, but her rhyme weaves like colours all spiralling into black, all around me; the lines echo t