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A Suburban Hum

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The cul-de sac

Smelt like a recent bereavement.

Curtains drawn,

Oblivious to the colour in their midst


Spitting cats,

Arched backs, vengeful for their loss.

Lines drawn

In paint one restive night.

Territorial, like.

BUT borders can be breached,

And guards notoriously lax.

Lips pursed, they bitterly regret

The detritus this neighbourhood attracts.

Darkness brings no respite, no relief.

Insinuated by the infernal drill.

The drip...drip...drip...drip...drip

Of the leaking gutter of a recent divorcee

Drum, drum, drumming upon his window-sill.

A gate can easily be left ajar,

As the hapless father now knows to his cost.

In the path of an accelerating car

The most fervent-beating heart may quick be lost.

The cul-de-sac

Smelt like a cremation.

Acrid pall,

Futile recrimination cast across the fences

By the breeze

Fingers crooked

Point, accusing.

Voices ever shriller resonate

Within smothering walls.

Meantime, her own decline,

The unravelling we neither hear nor see...

Possessed by the eternal, infernal drill.

The drip...drip...drip,

The leaking gutter of a distracted divorcee.

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I love this, B-F. It's a veritable assault on the senses. I can almost smell the cul-de-sac.

I've read this several times, and each time I'm struck by the eloquence of your words, and likewise the disturbing content. A work of art, to be sure... and one that leaves me feeling like I've entered a suburb of "The Shining."

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