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Writer's pictureSpike Woods

You could never . . .

‘You could never live with God’ she said, puffing a long clay pipe

and blew a bubble that shimmered

with a distorted rainbow window

She drew a sharp pointed hatpin from her skin

and lunged

I saw a thousand soldiers die in the remnant

of that bubble

feeling them fall to earth

lifeless

cracked in a Cubist nightmare

a mirror of pieces of Christmas bauble

chrome peeled off a spotlamp

a silver holly leaf

and a partridge in a pear tree

she leered with her eyes and ate the pear

The partridge scuttled into cover

and I heard it mumbling in the wagon

she was deaf to God, anyhow

when he called, she was out

did I go and see Him sometimes

in His purple robes

in His marble home

in His little warm Ark

‘I always knock, you know . . . . .’

she said, eating the liquorice pipe

‘and I always avoid the Jewish quarter

after, and on, the Sabbath:

in fact, every day’

‘YOU BASTARD!’ He said, from his nest in a cloud

(white of course) and spat yellow tobacco rain on her

as she toiled in the cottonfields

‘I don’t want you to live with me!!’

He roared, roaring

His crown fell off

I caught a prong and kept it

When I look at myself in a tinsel leaf,

my unicorned head twists up

a little

It makes me think she may still sit,

smoking her golden crown, prongless

toothless

troubleless

boundless

beless

amless

noneless

the

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