Seven Hundred Cigarettes

Petulia’s word: escape

Marian: Where did yxou leave that plume of Fluoro hair?

Jitters and spins about,
The search light sets a frenetic pace.
Yxou sweeps his hair from his face.

Seven hundred cigarettes,
He brushes his hand through a shock of red
Brandished menacingly on his head.

Red strands clump down on ceramic.
The tinny buzz is drowned by the sound:
Men’s boots, dogs barking all around.

Pause to check the job is done
In flashes of light from under the door.
WOAH WOAH. Ferocious sounds outside
The room with the fluoro hair strewn floor.