Liar She made things up: for example, that she was really a man. After she'd taken off her cotton floral day-frock she was him alright, in her head, dressed in that heavy herringbone from Oxfam. He was called Susan actually. The eyes in the mirror knew that, but she could stare them out. Of course, a job; of course, a humdrum city flat; of course, the usual friends. Lover? Sometimes. She lived like you do, a dozen slack rope-ends in each dream hand, tugging uselessly on memory or hope. Frayed. She told stories. I lived in Moscow once ... I nearly drowned ... Rotten. Lightning struck me and I'm here to tell... Liar. Hyperbole, falsehood, fiction, fib were pebbles tossed at the evenings flat pool; her bright eyes fixed on the ripples. No one believed her. Our secret films are private affairs, watched behind the eyes. She spoke in subtitles. Not on. From bad to worse. The ambulance whinged all the way to the park where she played with the stolen child. You know the rest. The man with the long white wig who found her sadly confused. The top psychiatrist who studied her in gaol, then went back home and did what he does every night to the Princess of Wales. Carol Ann Duffy -- ╭─╮╭╮ ╭╮╮ ╭╮ │╰╯│╰╮╭╭╮│ │╭─╮╭ ╮│╰╮"At the touch of love everyone ╭╮││ ╯││││ │╭ │││││ ╯ becomes a poet." ╰─╯╰╰╯╰─│╰╯╯╰╰╯╰╰╯╰╰╯ -- Plato ───── ╰─╯ ─────────── http://darkshadows.org/~skyhawk ─ --

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