"polyfilla" poems
She calls herself Ethel Du May if you were to ask
But it's not her name, not really,
Even she's not sure what it is anymore
Metal framed glasses with a wonky arm
Skin like crepe paper coated in a layer of polyfilla
With rouge a plenty upon her cheeks, her lips and teeth
Her petite frail frame drowning in gaudy colours and faux fur
Rows upon rows of beads wrapped tightly round her neck
Long pointed red talons, the only decoration upon her delicate fingers
Sitting at the bus stop awaiting the number 21 to town
The time, quarter past nine, she sits and waits
Pressing her menthol cigarette to her lips and tutting looking at her watch
A designer handbag placed upon her lap filled with secrets
Boiled sweets, an address book, anais anais perfume
A hip flask of sherry, metal handcuffs and a spare pair of knickers
She smiles at strangers, at no one, at memories
She's lived a life you only read about in storybooks
And poems
Jan 22, 2014
Jan 22, 2014 at 4:23 PM UTC
No more Polyfilla face
Behold the plain and naked
Made up in poor taste
Death mask and masquerade
Poor state of nature
Tarted up and raw
Fight the flaccid face
Tighten up the lines
Stretchmarks are stripes
Jowls hang and flap façade in crisis
Out flicks the knife
Smile for life with one slash
Round up the rings
Count up the crags
Callous with age
Horns on the hands
Petrified hags hard and rock like
Gnarled old bark
Woman tree wither
Roots left in ruins
Ends split and hairdo dead
All through and done for
Overblown and glory gone
Jun 9, 2020
Jun 9, 2020 at 8:06 AM UTC