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I unwrap you tenderly from the stained sheets, lift your tousled head from the smudged hollow of that unwashed housewife pillowcase and drag you from your foul nest. I stand you in the corner. You start to sway –your geisha face glazed.
Watch as I stir a warped metal spoon around the scabbed rim of your prized casserole dish in provençal blue. Your dead mother’s.
It will be left in the cluttered sink for countless days, riddled with white calc, to become a rusting hulk in a stagnant backwater.
As the scattered bones from your picked-clean career rattle down the chimney, I will post scraps of golden pancake into that generous mouth I once kissed with ardour. They will turn black and you will spit grey ashes.
See? Inside those pretty striped mugs stacked in your darkened cupboard, silverfish squirm. You are so over. The tip of your pink floral Cath Kidston oven mitt is encrusted with cack.
You were a kettle singing away on the Aga, with an ill-fitting lid. I’ve already poked my index finger into your perfect soufflé which has sagged as per the famous Fougasse cartoon–it now dips around your big pink ears, my dear.
Those ears that never listened to me. The maids whispered and I took them at their word. I will seize that loser’s wooden spoon and insert it into your filthy duplicitous mouth–waggle it around and perhaps pop a colourful Lakeland spatula in there, two in one for good measure, and scrape the sides.
I mean to spoil and bruise those perfect pouting lips that used to lick and nip at salted caramel from a silver apostle spoon. You basked in those warm sticky rays, lithe viscous runnels, anointing your flesh, another Byzantine Theodora on the make. Oh, how they worshipped you.
Your dark luscious locks are now matted, tangled around the spoon. I thrust deeper, I want to tap your tonsils, make you gag. Only then will I withdraw. Enough.
I drank your double cream some time ago. The remains now stand upon the sill, in an artisan pottery bowl, clotted. Don’t plead with me with those big spaniel eyes. I am the Almighty’s ready reckoner, the merciless one, Mr Money Bags. They will bow to me and drop you like a hot cake–your buttery crumbs trodden in and spread over the filthy, unswept floor.
You will be wiped along with it. You are now subject to me–nothing but a rag-end mop wetly nudging at my god-like feet firmly planted upon tiles of Fired Earth.
About Lise Colas
Lise Colas lives on the south coast of England and writes poetry and short fiction. She has a BA (Hons) in Fine Art and used to work in the archive of Punch magazine. Her work has appeared in Every Day Fiction, Jersey Devil Press, Black Poppy Review, Literary Orphans, Gone Lawn, Slink Chunk Press, Sick Lit Magazine, Cease, Cows and Occulum.
