Philip Wilson


There's time before the bell for one last surge.
I tell you, if I'd had to haunt the chapel-arcade
for one more century, listening to the priests hum
and spew prayers like fixed one-armed-bandits &ndasg;
I tell you, I'd have written the memo myself:
Get me out of here! So I was resigned
when the Punch and Judy Show began,
me kicked around like real flesh and blood,
ectoplasm turning candyfloss
in the heat of the blessing. When I exploded,
a lonely heart of a failed Pierrot,
shot to every corner of the church, I saw them
for the first time from on high: scuttling crabs
on a weedstrewn beach and somehow waiting.
Waiting for a grave, for a spade.


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