Thursday, 14 September 2017

A poem by Paul Vaughan

Heat


Heat’s peeling off the walls,
thick as the smudged scarlet lip gloss
concealing tiny cracks she traces
with fingertip across her mouth.

Curtains hang dead as her dank hair.
Nothing stirs in darkness
but the cold flicker of Abbott and Costello on silent screen.

Flare of a lighter flutters her face.
She sucks hard on her cigarette,
stares at the red stain on filter tip.
Crimsoned butts pile out of the ashtray
on the glass of the coffee table
and the colour of blood
pools by her feet
on her dress
on the glint of the knife.









Paul Vaughan lives in Yorkshire. His poems have appeared in Agenda, Prole, Poetry Salzburg, Frogmore Papers, Obsessed with Pipework and Dream Catcher, among other places. He is also an editor of the e-zine Algebra of Owls.

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