First Edition
Copyright © Out-Spoken Press 2016
First published in 2016 by Out-Spoken Press
Design & Art Direction
Ben Lee
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Typeset in: FreightText Pro
ISBN: 978-0-9931038-6-5
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any other means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the author.
For Carmen Dasilva,
my dearest mum.
Sabrina Mahfouz is a poet, playwright and screenwriter who has published a number of theatre pieces including Layla's Room (2016), With a Little Bit of Luck (2016), Chef (2015) and The Clean Collection (2014), all with Methuen Bloomsbury. Her poetry and writing has been performed and produced for TV, radio and film and includes Railway Nation: A Journey in Verse (BBC2), We Belong Here (BBC iPlayer); Breaking the Code (BBC3) and Sabrina Mahfouz: Arts Academy Scholar (Sky Arts).
in the garage with a good client (sylvia)
filled up with all sorts of shit
boxes
bricks and bricks of boxes
building up to
it’s all just a build up really isn’t it
there’s nothing to keep us here but the anticipation
no space in here
why have extra space with no space in it
beats me
this one won’t beat me
not a chance
his hands are feathery
couldn’t grip the bones of a glove
probably why there’s a babylonian paper garden
growing mould in this
when he dies will it go to his wife
she’ll sit on a mirror of her own tears
sifting through white sheets
get a paper cut
suck the blood
corner of her wedding ring
a tray of timely memories
drop fingertip to a photo she isn’t in
rip it up, rip it all up, sleep.
No sleep for me
not for a few hours
see who’s out
see him he’s hunting for the
stiletto stash
plastic clear full
only box here without a lid
blue shoes give blisters
red shoes rub the bunion
I told him
oh oh oh oh
here we go today he’s decided red
foot soak when I get in
look, him holding them like slabs of tyre rubber
tingling with motorway crash heat
smile now sylvia
taller now ay sylvia
three and a half minutes to go
two white strands in his black eyebrows
all mine grey, ha but I have a dye kit
he might be in a car when he dies
twisting metal might make a washing line out of his membrane
gross that would be gross he’s a nice man
well not a bad man
not one of the bad ones
one of the worst ones
he doesn’t take
one minute to go
there’s that beach again
I will sunbathe there before I die
really go there on a plane not just go go
whenever I go
go go go go go oh oh oh
ah bunion fucking kills
who invented pointy shoes
asked my mum once who invented me
she said no idea my petal
but it must have been a very clever man
so disappointed
I wanted to have been invented by storm waves
to protect them from the williwaw.
living room lamp (sylvia)
gather then lift their judgement cards
fake-tanned botoxed faces on the telly
telling sweating hesitants if they can last
until next week, if their feet worked sufficiently
hard to turn a scuffed rubber floor into fantasy
for two minutes of tango salsa waltz foxtrot,
women like sylvia lauding the costumes so glittery
whispering feathers for life’s prime slots.
sylvia has one hand around a warm wine glass
when scott pushes swelled knuckles sinkingly
into the settee, his beer can finished starts
to raise himself up bowing to sylvia’s beauty
asks may he have this dance hand out hopefully
she shakes her head I’m sixty two scott, not
some first date post-war teen or these sorts on tv
whispering feathers for life’s prime slots.
scott regards himself as a reverse human ballast
conducting maximum electricity to sylvia’s body
white wine always makes her weak she won’t last
until next week or to the end of her argumentatively
affectionate refusal, she dances drunk and clumsily
the living room needs painting, now bright apricot