by Fiona "Countess of Auchtermuchty" Gregory-Smith
In the depths of Flat 24
A lanky, glass-eyed fiend
Lurks and slumps
Over a pair of plastic breasts,
Which he fondles avidly, stopping only
To leap at an occasional deafening note
On the stereo,
Or to slump
From several buckets of whisky
Lined up, for the night’s activities,
Which will continue ’till dawn,
Shut out by drawn curtains
From the eyes
Of the goggling gargoyles
In the other flats.
The fiend is not alone in those early hours.
A figure upstairs
Sits amidst piles of video recorders
And long lost cooking utensils,
Dreaming of six-armed Gods
And letters to the editor.
He sucks and chews contentedly
On an old pipe,
As old as he
And Ogston House.
Below, a pair of drunkards belch
After their final meal
Of macaroni cheese.
Lie strewn around the festering pit
And rats scurry,
To nibble at unidentified proteins.
In the kitchen, cauldrons
Of brew bubble and boil:
Letting off noxious gases
Into the foul dank air.
Suddenly, A knock.
Who goes there; is it Marion?
No, it is the girl from upstairs,
Menacingly waving a cricket bat,
Tired with T.V. and antique typewriter,
She has come to plague the hapless pair.
Flicking her wicked black ponytail,
She dives into the putrid depths
And is seen no more.
Outside, a mournful little man
Sobs Burmese lullabies
And prays for the black ponytail
Lying on his pillow;
Alas she cannot be his!
A loud click of stiletto heels
Sounds on the sidewalk;
Heads turn to admire
The red lips and long black gloves
As they hurry
To a lunch appointment at Moma;
Hairpins fly hither and thither,
But are carefully picked up
By a passing Samurai warrior,
His deft fingers
Stow the metallic souvenirs
Close to his heart —