Entry - MAG Poetry Prize 2010


by Richard Welch

My boot makes mockery of a puddle,
Mirroring the buzz of bass in my brain.
Another night out bashing the cocaine
Rots the mind.  Home life is bloody awful.
Who would have thought the sex could be so dull?
Like a disease, does one lone thought remain;
A business deal down some scummy back lane.
A cheap screw?  Or a kiss and a cuddle?
At home, her cold Quiche Lorraine waits, its crust
Crumbles like the wife’s face, after greeting
A fist.  In the shadows, a flash of thigh
Is a bribe, a deadly invite for lust.
A tenner covers our cum-faced meeting,
Yet nothing can be done to satisfy.

Added: 27.04.2010