by Jen Wainwright

And next door

At number 30,

A pig-tailed six year old,

Freckled and “angelic”

Thinks of dolls houses,


And a world take over bid……


The moon,

Hangs in the sky,

As you walk,

Through the sheeting drizzle,

Glinting in the light

Cast from pink streetlights,

Suspended down the nameless street


They live,

In cardboard-fronted houses.

Their heads, filled with candyfloss dreams,

And low-fat mayonnaise.

As they lie,

Fantasy upon fantasy,



The golden girl,

Thoughts full,

Of plasticised figures,

On a mound of nauseating white,

Icing, and chiffon swirl,

In a spiralling dream


The flickering street lamps fizz,

And die,

As you walk through the sheeting drizzle,

Heels click on the polished tarmac…..