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This poem is taken from PN Review 144, Volume 28 Number 4, March - April 2002.

Two Poems Andrew Waterman

Fairy Tales

The room falls silent, and the child asleep.
There's ironing to be done, a meal to cook.
Boredom bloodshot with terror (children weep)
When he reels in. This is no storybook,

Where Cinders, Ugly Duckling, Beast, the miller's
Third son, are graced by shape or class mutation.
She clicks-on TV: for blondes the serial-killer's
Getting stuck in to, no resuscitation.

Outside, wolves gobble flesh on slum estates;
In cops' gear, giants pump more volts through Jack;
Puss flees from Palace boots. Art replicates
(Ah, mirror, mirror... ) disenchantment, lack.

On pillows, among facts bad as they seem,
If-only flames unquenched, our vital dream.

The Slipper

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