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On the late night train away from sense
and into the midnight wasteland,
Old Lady Morbidica vomited blood,
I swore it was the blood
of unsuspecting travelers.
She bent her back, then sank to her knees,
and spewed into plastic bags,
it was her lifelong custom,
three plastic bags at a time
at least a couple of times a day.
I trembled with my travelling companion,
a changeling as I might have predicted.
Her only child, nameless and mythical,
traveled with her, high crimes in tow,
high crimes not directly known
but surely the highest crimes just the same.
Legend was he had a fourteen inch legend
but we were more concerned with high crimes.
We feared that Old Lady Morbidica
would cast a spell that we could not escape,
we dared not close our eyes
or with her spell she might reach our arteries
and vomit our blood into plastic bags,
it was her lifelong custom.
We feared that her son, one alone,
would cleave us open from throat to groin
and feed our innards to the pigs
running alongside the train in the night,
offering magical pig-like power
in exchange for the innards
of unsuspecting travelers.
We lay alongside one another
and she came to us in the smallest hours.
Strangely, Old Lady Morbidica smiled,
she looked unexpectedly benign,
she fell into my arms and whimpered,
I said nice things and comforted her.
Her nameless and mythical child
stood over us, he was quite plain,
next to me, still, my travelling companion, 
now changed, as I should have known;
we all sang silly sweet songs,
the kind you’ll only hear
on Radio Kindergarten,
or on family-friendly CheeseTV;
we laughed with relief 
and sobbed with shame.

4th March 2019

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