Wednesday, 4 April 2018

Its Beginnings...



Its beginnings … well
she hoarded she did,
threw nothing away,
everything had its value,
nothing was wasted,
might be needed tomorrow…

In the kitchen it started,
but not as you might think
on dirty old worktops
littered with used plates
humming malodourous,
grease congealing the remnants
of yesterdays’ dinners cooked eons before,
nor the myriad of cups of all shapes
and all sizes solid with mould,
milk soured & congealed & firm at their base.

Nor in the sink stagnant its water,
globules of grease floating idly atop,
no it started in there,
that place in the corner,
that place in the corner
behind that grubby old door,
the door to the larder, the larder
where she flung her old foodstuffs
or anything unwanted anything definitely dead;
oozing sprouted potatoes liquefying in plastic,
chewed bones from the roast & her mouldy old bread,
anything rotten or rotting, her meds never swallowed,
Tigger the old cat, dirty broken old dentures
and stuff from the downstairs commode
(you’d rather not know).

And the sun and the heat and the air did its thing…
isn’t life beautiful?

Came the time when her worried son visited
for it was time for that talk of where she should live.
That talk of the need of a care home for her needs
far outstretching the care he could give.

Tommy came too
(her delightful young grandson)
and he baulked as she hugged him, hugged him
ever so close to her bony old chest,
and (he) wanted to vomit as her dentures
clacked as she kissed him, and squirmed
as saliva wetted his tiny horrified lips.
(And oh how he quivered, he quivered,
poor little terrified mite,)

Go now said his father
and he willingly did so,
wandered the hall to the kitchen
and opened that door. 
That door to the larder
where new life was pulsating,
and inquisitive he, he sat on the floor.

In its glutinous puddle a potato thing
eyed him with its mean green solitary eye,
its orifice bursting with her dirty old dentures,
and terrified he, he knew he should run,
but so wanted so needed to touch it
and touch it he did. 

It bit off his finger and ran up his arm,
'granny' kissed him wearing the most terrible smile,
and terrified he peed at the moment his heart stopped
(poor little mite (paying the price of an inquisitive soul!)). 
And potato thing, bloated with blood & hungry for humans,
grinned and opened its mouth and swallowed him whole.

Anna :o]

Susan’s prompt at Poets United is that of the word Beginnings and above is my offering.  Cheers for the inspiration Susan!

11 comments:

Susan said...

I'm totally cracking up. Horrifying! A rollicking delight of terror! And I, who can't even watch horror movies, enjoyed every minute of it. I'm happy you had fun with this prompt (sorry it's true).

Sumana Roy said...

O My Anna!! You dragged me to the scene. O My :D

Anonymous said...

gorgeously ghastly and terrifyingly terrific Anna - wondered where this was going and followed every line with bated breath - you have stepped in the shoes of Hillaire Belloc

Sherry Blue Sky said...

I agree with the above - gorgeously ghastly...........like watching The Hoarder, one is sickened but cannot look away. This is really wonderful work. I am a Cleaning Machine, a bit OCD, so it was a delightfully painful read. Bravo! Way to entertain during poetry month.

annell said...

What an awful and delightful tale!! I loved it!

Robert Bourne said...

I thoroughly enjoyed this... what a conflict between humor and ghastly... well done

Gillena Cox said...

This is so gruesome; yet I was able to smile at the end of it all

much love...

Jenny Woolf said...

Oh, my - what a horror story. But there's something darkly amusing about the idea of dying because of false teeth!

Sara McNulty said...

Terrifyingly hilarious. Love this, Anna!

Panchali said...

Oh dear me! Many of us face, to some degree, struggle with the desire to keep things because we think we may need them later, or because we want to preserve the memories associated with them. But, this one really had a hoarders'brain...LOL...
Everyone needs help but, most often, the patient—the hoarder—is identified as the sick one!! And once that happens, it seems, the "judging" begins.
Enjoyed reading this poem so much, Anna! Thumbs Up!!

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