Jammie Dodgers
Not the virtuous digestive
or curlicue embossed custard cream
or Communion taste of a pink wafer,
but Jammie Dodgers,
the ones to return torchlit lights-out,
lidos, comic swaps, reels of caps going off
as on Wild West horses disguised as bikes
we freewheeled through a world
holding nothing worse than boiled cabbage,
a sum gone wrong, the black and white on the blink.
Where to offer the last of these sticky hearts
sealed a new best friendship, bestowed
a sort of sainthood, as you martyred yourself
with a Garibaldi’s dead fly mash.
© Stephen Bone
Abstract
It took up an entire wall,
smudged clusters
of purple and orange
streaked with drips of acid yellow.
A throwback to tie-dyes,
lava lamp blobs,
the psychedelia of a sixties’ trip.
‘Breathtaking,’ you said, going on to read out –
‘The herpes virus under an electron microscope.’
© Stephen Bone
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