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Wed, 28 Apr 2010
Jaimie invites you to meet some weasels, be careful though this may frighten the little ones

JAIMIE THINKS THIS MIGHT BE A LITTLE OTT

FOR THE REALLY LITTLE ONES

Weasels.


Let go, let go, I cry to the little weasels clinging to my trouser cuffs

but the little blighters are persistant and tough, intent on making me ragged and rough.

Vainly I kick at them and beat them with sticks but only suceed in bruising my ankles and straining my shins.

The weasels of self-doubt and regret cling remorselessly to my apparel and limbs.

Nothing seems to shake them - salt and pepper, threatening letters, a word in the ear from one who knows better.

They drag me back to the Woods of Love Lost and show me where we carved out initials

and later on I called her silly, vain and superficial.

In the glade where we made lovely lemonade from spring water and crushed elderberries we found in the shade they start to gnaw at my best leather boots, trailing spittled slivers of heel, flap and lace from their laughing, leering lips like exotic cigars or gentlemen's cheroots.

Release me, you little, goblin-faced swine, I cry, but they only smirk and simper the more,

going through my jacket pockets in search of more delectable sweetmeats they might gnaw

- a letter I wrote but never posted, the foil wrapper from the last packet of nuts we shared, dry-roasted, a tear-stained flyer from the All Night Gala Karaoke I hosted the night we first metand I comforted her in the mulberry bushes after the biggest tyger mosquitos

either of us had ever seen bit her twice upon the neck.

"Ha-ha, he-he," the weasels jeer,

"we'll not release you until until we see some blood or tears:

Posted 21:00

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