(based on suggestions from my mum)
Someone’s put the screech owl on repeat;
a Wilhelm scream in compilation.
Everyone did it. Not some Orient Express malarkey,
it’s just there’s not enough murderers left
so we’re having to double up.
When did you last commit?
Joyce’s hair has always been a crime,
but no one wrote a car-crash overture for her.
The whole hour and a half could be shot
in a pub through the bottom of Weronika’s pint glass.
It’s hardly Kieślowski, but stab in some
Preisner, a fox in the hedgerow, a half of bitter,
and you’ll have a perfect tri-colour symphony.
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Tonight's poem is based on suggestions from my mum ("Write a poem about Midsomer Murders!"), and my overnight dreams about Kieślowski film soundtracks.
4 comments:
we suspect that joyce has done all the murders. notice that every new hobby she takes up means death? she's clearly a mastermind. that can be the only excuse for her terrible "acting".
It still doesn't excuse her hair. My mum calls her "The Helmet".
maybe it's a disguise? or a distraction - in the words of legolas, "a diversion!!!1"? you're too busy noticing her hair to notice the bloody pitchfork in the kitchen?
Mum: "You look towards Joyce, and suddenly, it's one man down - ANOTHER MAN DOWN - maybe it's not a screech owl, it's someone else being murdered. They never find them, they're in the WOODS. When the screeching owl doth call..."
Me: "Don't sat 'doth'."
Mum: "You have to say 'doth'. It's England."
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