Search This Blog

Friday, 30 October 2020

More, by Georgia Kelly

 The clamoring cries cannot be heard

through the iron-clad gates

where brazen brass bottles

are pushed into the gaping holes

of biscuit-crumbed beards.


Among the silver spoonfuls

they tell tales in libraries

laden with the likes of Dickens:

Please sir, can I have some more?

met only with tremors

of froth-filled melodic laughter.


Beyond the metal mansions

appointed cellulite speakers

snivel black vapur of bile

fogging up mosaic screens

feeding empty words

to small salivating mouths.

The lack of this 

the lack of that.

Pudding served with  an apology.

Their silver spoons turn to lead

in impoversished hands.


Please Mum, can I have some more?

met only with the trembles

of barren bellies and

mother's quivering lip.


There's no more.


and Big ben's chime is eerily silent when it's time for supper.


No comments:

Post a Comment