Thursday 26 November 2009

#46 - Gravity

Alice wants the rest of the gang
to know how very serious she is,
so she dons an improvised judge's wig
fashioned from a bathmat, and bangs
her garlic crusher gavel against a tin
of prunes.

She craves order like a sponge craves
blood. She's jonesing for it,
slamming her hammer, glaring
at them all for still talking.

'Order!' she spits, 'Order!'
her phlegm hitting the sunbeam like spritzer fizz,
like tiny stars.

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