I went down to the Minerís Club
to see a bloke about a cutting tool
and though Iíd never called him
by his Christian name
the brown ale flowed
and as his tongue was loosed
he let slip the location of the place
where the villageís interiors were stored.
An old abandoned shaft.
Secrets stacked so tight
they lined the walls.
A shop-girlís termination.
The bankerís bondage toys.
A priest whose ever-open hand
swished the flies of altar boys.
Under a full moon, he said,
you could hear them whisper
and for a small recompense
heíd steal you in.
When we were done
I left him drowning in his boots.
Sliced a hole in the roof
with the cutting tool.
The chitterlings shrieked out like bats.
Then there was silence.
If you have any comments on this poem, Joe Cullen
would be pleased to hear from you.