Poetry

John Whitworth: Two Poems

The Room under the Eaves Ascend the winding second stair To find the room we call the spare. It’s very cold and very bare, A bed, a cupboard and a chair, And something rotten in the air, A touch of evil rich and rare, Sad spirits, once so debonair, Now ululate in deep despair— The roaring boys, the millionaire, In brass and leather underwear, Their corpses shaved of pubic hair, Each penis a boutonnière It’s all a pretty rum affair, A whiff of some satanic prayer, A secret no-one wants to share. Blow out the candle if you dare. John…

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