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11. Mr Weisling


Image of 11. Mr Weisling

Available in A1 (h594 x w841 mm) & A2 (h420 x w594 mm) sizing.

Printed on Ilford Galerie Smooth Pearl.

'Mr Weisling'

Every night I arrive to my birthplace and all is orderly,
Everyone is cheerful, whimsical and present,
After a callous days work, an ouzo and coke would go down a treat,
He sits on his throne with the wreak of arrogance on his breath,
She waits idly to remind him of his worthlessness,
But not yet,
We have plenty to discuss,
We must wait for that familiar red button to appear,
Slowly the pungent smell of aniseed fills and chokes the room,
Along with the gloom between these two lovers,
She snaps words that bruise his inner core,
She sees that it hurts and seeks to sharpen her daggers,
He is waiting to release the cursed monstrosity that is so reminiscent of times past,
Voices raise and the verbal swords are whipping through wounds that have never healed,
At least not for tonight,
He leaves his throne for two reasons, One, to quench his thirst for numbness, And the other to show that misused martial arts can further sustain an ego,
I sit in my room listening to the cries that could wake the dead,
The thud of drunken footsteps thunder down the hallway towards my room,
I hear his voice; he has left the throne, The bedroom door slams,
It's not mine,
I wish it wasn't next to my room,
I hear him hit her over and over again, Slamming her against walls so hard that the house shook,
I want to do something but at eleven years old I was so frightened,
The supposed saviour didn't do anything as their restraining orders were like jokes, But no one seemed to laugh.
He leaves in a storming rush,
And I go to sleep to the sound of my mother sobbing into the night,
The next day at school I spoke not a word of my experience,
They wouldn't understand,
My teachers already labelled me the day I walked through the gates.