The house on the hill – One further poem

My mother never loved my father,

A man who even at the best of times was a drunk and a gambler.

Whether she loved me was a question I thought of habitually

And to some great extent,

But with little in the way of conclusion.

Wiggle wiggle – a poem

Wiggle wiggle

Waggle waggle

Twisting, turning, house is burning,

Wiggle wiggle waggle waggle woo.

People with lives, lives like shooting stars, gleaming and bright and rare, rare as grass that’s green, water that’s blue.

Loony Lovegood looking girl,

Leaning right to see,

With swoosh of magic silver hair,

The curly mess of me.

Oxford boy, dear oxford boy,
Walked in before my shower
Watched with careful glower
Looking strong and rather dower.

And I didn’t mean to stalk you,

But I know that’s what I did.

It’s not all about the girl, I promise.
It’s so much more complex.
Just because I spend my weekends
Reading through our texts.

Looking at my reflection,
And feeling my morning erection,
And reaching for the spinning blades,
Like I do on all work weekdays,

Did you ever love me,
The way that I loved you?

Whistle to my grave,
My love.