under a bank of dry leaves, a sleeping satyr woke
dust and cobweb coat, black waxed hooves
curled grooved horns, tangled beard, yellow eyes.
he came down the bend from the old holt
to live in the empty house at the end of our row
crumbling plaster, wormy eaves, left from a death
he liked it.
smell of burning tar and bitter coffee at sunup every day
stood in the front garden, door ajar, with his cup,
not corningware. some bloke gurning from the clay.
littered the ground around his grand tree with fag butts
B&H golds. his old mam’s brand, the slag, the slut
said his good mornings to fair schoolgirls
erect. thick furred penis
sundown he watched game shows on the telly
picked his belly button clean, glugged jars of dark mead
from the crimson bees in the stair cupboard
their comb made pale candles our mothers burned with a sickly flame
Ellie’s cat went missing.
blood on his teeth. a soothsayer, he said.
a keen eye to judge the cut of meat
as he told our fathers, keen to keep us fresh, wrapped
he tested our inner flesh for tenderness
rapt, prodding with dirty, jagged nails.
🐝🥩
