Licking Liquorice
by and published in Edition Ten of Pomegranate
daddy,
the alarm is in my head.
over in the corner where little puddles
of toys turn whispers into sirens
and I wake, a lamb,
veiled by the too-warm blankets
that strap like taut seatbelts.
flakes
of
windscreen
push past my face
and pierce and pluck and promise
then back in my bedroom
blinking up at the procession that sometimes
marches like liquorice on my ceiling
so I take a tongue to the wall
in the yolk of the headlights through the
unshuttered blinds
it tastes of petrol and clots like blood in
the back of my throat.
then, daddy,
you sealed up my eyes and mouth with hot wax
and stole into
the amber
under the
door.
Ajar, I think.
Dom Hale
Dom Hale lives in Lancashire, currently attending college. A passionate fan of the deliciously flawed work of Lou Reed, Dorian Gray and Blackpool Football Club, he hopes one day to write for a living, release a seminal album with his band or play right back for England. He enjoys optimism.