The sky looks tired,
grey and lifeless now
God’s white vest
turned inside out
seamed and ugly
mixed up in the wash
with His Son’s
black pants
and two pairs of
navy socks.

And without a colour catcher sheet
Days grew hard and darkness bled into the light.

Worse still,
allowed to accumulate,
build up
apparently over aeons.
Blocked the filter
(Bottom left – behind the little door)
Dripped, leaked, flooded and
then warped the laminate
The mop lies sopping on heaven’s floor.

The machine itself is ancient
Unsafe, obsolete
No extended warranty
Not even maintained according to the manufacturer’s own instructions
All losses consequently uninsured.

And this domestic chaos is quite usual
With no-one to answer to,
No one individual clearly in charge
Father and Son share chores,
Make beds, wash up
Sullenly resent
The Holy Ghost
Who, of course
can’t lift a finger
or even vacuum

The wave
crushed whole towns
drowned the people
And receding
tore them all away, apart
Not seen again

He keeps them
in jars
Different shades of sand
Interestingly shaped stones
in bottles
These ruined little worlds
of days
when the universe was young
in seaside sunshine.

warm between
His toes
Ice cream drips
soaks into a
golden cone.
a father lies
half buried
in the sand.
A son
with a spade
shields his eyes.

Gary Wildridge

(Pic: IB)

This entry was posted on in homepage, Uncategorized and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

One Response to OH SHIT! II

    1. Ha! This motored on, galloping toward its conclusion; wit, pathos and regret homogenising into a wonderful living mousse.
      I loved it!

      Comment by Roger Wright on 2 April, 2013 at 10:10 am

Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.