10 November 2012
The bedroom smelt of sex and smoke, Of old cigars and passions broke.
A broken bucket by the wall, Tangled sheets to break a fall.
A splash of red against the bed, A book discarded, yet unread.
A pair of mittens furred and full, Pretentious wall-art, all so dull.
The bed at angles, bed posts wrecked, A stack of cards, perhaps once decked.
A lacy glove and lacy clothes, Creased, aged parchment filled with 'oaths'.
Jack Daniel's finest, smooth and thick, A woman's clutch with rouge lipstick.
An ancient camera, pictureless, And yet more red with more finesse.
Among this mess, cacophony, Lies a woman, dead is she.
Her line of pearls about her neck, In one gloved hand a crumpled cheque.
What? • Opuss № I