I hear it in the pipes

I hear it in the pipes

The gurgle of sadness

The strangled cry

The memory of holding a candle

In the attic

Freezing

The darkness flickering

Creating shadows

A macabre affair

Shivering

Warming the stopcock valve

Frozen in fear

Not wanting to call out

Knowing it would be wrong.

The smell of cigarettes

In the communal areas

Of a guest house

Full of working men

Exiled

Desperation in their voices

The grunt of acceptance

As they fall into a deep sleep

Their nose

In the other guy’s toes.

A nosegay of dead flowers

Lying on a neglected grave

The lees at the bottom

Of an empty bottle

Yesterday’s whisky on the breath

Of a man on the tube

At seven in the morning

Yellow stains on the armpits

Of his white shirt.

In the overflow

Of fast food cartons

In a wastebin

Of a bedsit

Full of unopened boxes.

The sound of crying

In the middle of the night

When you are all alone.

The silence

When a ticking clock stops

The terror that it might restart.

The primal scream

Beneath every word

The shiver of a sentence

The finality of a full stop.