MONTHS ON END. | By: Terry Collett | | Category: Short Story - Introspective Bookmark and Share


For months on end
Your mother played
The new Jimi
Hendrix LP


Leaving you and
Your kid sister
Sal to your own
Devices both


Watching her lay
Abed daily
And nightly with


She had in her
Heart and head and
Bed at that time
Smoking stuff to


Make her easy
To be around
And the Hendrix
Guitar plucking


Out her blues like
One picking out
Fleas from a dog's
Hide and your kid


Sister saying
What the feck is
She doing with
That feller, he's


All over her
Like a warthog
In clover and
You'd shake your head


And spit and sigh
And lifting one
Of your mother's
Smokes from the pack


In one of her
Old smelly coats
You inhaled it
As if all the


Blues and shite and
Men she was then
Shacking with could
All be sucked out


Of the house and
World and the whole
Universe and


On the way with
The last lick of
Hendrix's guitar
On the well worn


LP like an
Old woman just
Sitting straining
For the last pee.


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