Last Easter
by Bryony Lavery
Joy:
Fucking Dead Loss Boyfriend Howie
continued to be dead.
The second year of anybody’s death
is like . . .
okay, the joke’s over
give me a ring
drop by
run into me in fucking Covent Garden
Alright, we’ve had all the Drama
The Funeral the Ash-Scattering . . .
Now, come round let’s go out for a
drink
I’ve so much to tell you . . .
Your funeral for one . . .
You’ll never guess who turned up!
That choreographer bitch from Chester
you said you never slept with!
Pinned her in a corner, your dad’s
best malt.
Well . . . Who’s a liar?
Chester. Derby. And Liverpool!
And after all the fucking whining
about
me and that Holby City
lighting cameraman!
But a nano-second after the thought
comes the other thought . . .
oh yes
fuck!
. . . you took that big pile of pills!
Mr Fucking History!
I wake up
I think where are you
Then I remember
oh yes
dead
God, I hate fucking Dead People!
June, you have to fucking promise
not to come back and fucking haunt me . . .
(Added on to the end:
ever since that Shiatzu guru
aligned my charkas absolutely so
why’s Howie still hanging around?
I mean, shouldn’t he be a lotus tree
or a tree frog
or
that bird or something by now?
(But)
I wake up
I think where is he
Then I remember
oh yes
dead
God, I hate fucking Dead People!
June, you have to fucking promise
not to come back and fucking haunt me . . .