Kemp Street 

This week’s poem, 52, Kemp Street: 1934 was inspired by a fellow MA Creative Writing student. He completed a presentation to the class on the subject and later showed me the street and house where it happened.


He wrestled a hammer—

Poor prostitute, dancer,
brought to her death
on May the tenth,
at Skylark Cafe.

He dragged her bruised
body, home to new quarters.
In a large black chest
he folded her corpse.

He left her to rot
for eight whole weeks,
a decaying stench
brought police to investigate.

Poor Violet Kaye,
no-one knew
where she’d gone—

except Toni Mancini.


N.B: The copyright of the above photograph is owned by Harry Pygar. Thank you to Harry for agreeing to let me use it.

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