THE VENTRILOQUIST

He had teeth false, like the ones
we used to buy as kids.
They tasted of a powdered
pink sweetness.
The gums, a bloody red.
The dentist, six feet tall.

Mr Grenen, or as we used
to call him, Mr. Grinnin'
with his myriad of mirrors,
his tubes, twisting like curls,
the chair, straight out
of Frankenstein.
And the smell of the surgery
coming from the centre
of the earth; a gas,
not for laughing.

He catches hold of the mouth
sprays it with 'Eucryl'.
Before I leave he gives
me a sweetmeat,
root liquorice,
to twig my words.