The Haunted Cult of Walking Away by Bobby Parker

I am not a silent poet

This is me holding a voodoo doll.

This is me waving the doll over the hob.

This is me being silly, doll down my pants,

shrugging like a nineties sitcom doofus.

This is also me, going a bit mad, in the garden.

Ha-ha… Look at the sky! Weird isn’t it?

That’s my dear old mum, bless her, screaming.

Without her my daughter wouldn’t have nice clothes.

There’s dad, half cut, staring at a black cloth.

We never came to blows and I’m proud of that.

They’re always asking what happened, oh

what happened, son, what happened?

The voodoo doll is not meant to represent

anyone in particular, although I’m sure

you’re sharp enough to notice it bears

a striking resemblance to the snake man

who rattles beside my wife and sells

her telly for dope; who sometimes tells

my daughter to wipe herself on a towel

because they can’t afford…

View original post 313 more words

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