Six pence an inch for Little usherette
Little usherette, a hundred shiny latex lashes anemone your eyes. You are Albert Pierrepoint contemplating just the one more. THUD! In this witless place of least resistance you beckon me aboard the milking stool. Your hood is my hood with eyeholes, are we the same person with a front row view? I smell the wrong sort of hemp and hear knitting needles click. A kick, a trap door – a neck unravelling crunches like a pound shop monkey wrench. My this that and the other hits a void, slides into space, stretches.
Michael Scott is from Swindon, his work has been published by And Other Poems, Ink Sweat and Tears, The Interpreter’s House, Verse Kraken (online) and The Morning Star.
‘Six pence an inch for Little usherette‘ is the final poem in a sequence of 25 poems (25 being the usual number of seats across a traditional cinema row* unless it’s a drive-in movie show in which case the average row tends to have slightly over 2 seats). The ‘Little usherette‘ sequence began at a poetry night in London as I gazed at the poet reading and imagined that she was playing chess with me using a 12 pack of Krispy Kreme donuts as pieces. The poet also looked like a cinema usherette in my world of velvet curtains. As I walked along Old Brompton Road explaining this to Hilda Sheehan, we passed the graveyard, crossed the road and Little usherette began to follow me, always the same, always slightly not.
* I made this up as I wrote this description of Little usherette came to be, I have no idea of, or interest in, the usual width of a cinema row.