The Laundry Ghost

Tonight, your ghost is palpable;

It is hanging with the clean

Laundry amputeed

On the guillotined  

Edge of a clothes horse

Slouching in the corner

Of this sudden torture chamber


The bump and sway of spectral

Hips teasing

The scent of wash powder,

Heavy in its haunting,

Perpetual incense

Drowning the room

With a papal buzz;

An accidental mass

Where I am the only

Devout devotee

Of unholy longing

With fervour enough

To make a spirit blush


Yet the sheets

Droop lifeless,

Remain untouched

Amidst the phantom

Rush rush rush

Present in the half shadows;

I take a basket

And gather blank souls

In twisted heaps


I open the window and begin

A pale nocturnal feed,

A thin moon reaping

With its yellow rind

A death wreath

Set to make

All I offer writhe

And live albeit brief

In the stirring breeze

Set to carry woven wraiths

Far from sight;


It is only you I want,

Beloved pestilent apparition

Of the night



Amber R Walker, Hull, Creative Writer, Bookmaker, Lover of art

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