“PURCELL” by LOUIS JONES


Purcell’s fingers tarantula twitch
draining mauve in the pocket of his close fitting tracksuit bottoms;
poor circulation;
mithering at a piggish erection with dictionary definition disdain.
Purcell’s sallow lips purse and thin;
on a cracked black plastic whistle;
to modulate increasingly shrill blasts of spittle sodden disinterest,
brought to issue with a slight slurp;

that drool pools,
on his weak bottom lip
depending on the qualities of the boy shivering in line for the shower

The pipe servicing the urinal trough that runs the length of the wall has leaked ever so slightly all season;
and so Purcell has, really quite entrepreneurially,
had the run off stewing;
in a crusty blue bucket;
for the duration of that mornings training session, and for however fucking far back the team has failed, docile, to perceive total trauma;
Today’s piss;
sat curdling, as froth on the already collected;
slop bucket cushioned by cut wet grass;
slicked to the once white tiling;
steaming;
a small font of sorts;
for a baptism of belittlement in the offing Continue reading