As you cry

Cold concrete curb

cuddles kindly 

as you cry.

Bare Feet

On the tarmac
she looks wrong. Bent.
Not much blood.
Bare feet.

Man At The Bus Stop

Sat alone at the bus stop
seemingly lost in bittersweet memories
shivering in your thin woolen jumper.

Eyes closed under heavy rimmed glasses
I look at your hands clasped together over your thin stomach.
Loose, wrinkled skin,
dark patches,
blue veins standing proud.

I try to imagine you young.
Thick dark hair, big white smile,
a petite brunette linked
with your muscular arms.

But the image fades as soon as it arrives.
The small white haired man before me is all I can see.


I feel naive, ashamed and young.
The lines etched on your face
tell tales I will never know,
though I wish I could.

Paranoia

-For T. Stewart-

Don't leave me.
Fears, irrational thoughts,
paranoia
converge.
I try to rationalize
one at time
only to find
several
more
pushing their way
viciously to the front of my cranium.
High-speed motorway crashes.
Unfasted roller-coaster harnesses.
Unseen falling objects.
Wet hands near sockets.
I hear the begging cries
of the what if's
and the screams of
terror.
Watching friends and family
being slaughtered.
Knifes push though layers of skin.
Plane crashes.
Violent house-destroying fires
started by leaving the switch on...
did I leave the switch on?
Slipping on rocks
falling off cliffs
still falling.
Don't leave me with
myself.

In Paris With You- James Fenton

In Paris With You

Don't talk to me of love. I've had an earful
And I get tearful when I've downed a drink or two.
I'm one of your talking wounded.
I'm a hostage. I'm maroonded.
But I'm in Paris with you.

Yes I'm angry at the way I've been bamboozled
And resentful at the mess I've been through.
I admit I'm on the rebound
And I don't care where are we bound.
I'm in Paris with you.

Do you mind if we do not go to the Louvre
If we say sod off to sodding Notre Dame,
If we skip the Champs Elysées
And remain here in this sleazy

Old hotel room
Doing this and that
To what and whom
Learning who you are,
Learning what I am.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris,
The little bit of Paris in our view.
There's that crack across the ceiling
And the hotel walls are peeling
And I'm in Paris with you.

Don't talk to me of love. Let's talk of Paris.
I'm in Paris with the slightest thing you do.
I'm in Paris with your eyes, your mouth,
I'm in Paris with... all points south.
Am I embarrassing you?
I'm in Paris with you. 

James Fenton

You

came in,
strolled around in your muddy boots.
I made you coffee at your request, you
dropped the cup.
The shards of my late mother's china cut me as I clear up,
You told me not to be so clumsy.
You scowled as I produced dinner,
You don't like mashed potato,
I should have remembered.
I let you push me upstairs,
your arms holding me tight,
whispering filthy things, slapping my arse and thighs,
too hard.
Your shed your dirty work
clothes on my floor
before ripping my pale lace dress.
I tell you what you want to hear
as you grab and squeeze, marking my body.
You purposely come on the sheets,
on my side of the bed
and collapse on me.
Heavy,
sweaty.
You bite my neck before you slide away,
satisfied.
I remain where you left me,
waiting to hear the door slam.
I look in the mirror at my face,
drained of colour, black trails from my eyes.
Where you bit me a dark angry bruise
resides.

As you leave
you tred on the colourful flowers
breaking their slender necks.

Reflections

As I touch the hard cold mirror I feel it crack.
I push harder.
The fracture splits
and divides
conquering the surface in seconds.

Splinters work their way into my finger tips
and cut the fine lines on my palms.
Segments fall and shatter
as I pull my hands across
the schisms.

Blood the colour of dark rubies
seeps over my wrists
creating smooth
uneven trails across my skin,
and drips at the elbow

I step back and
remove my hands from the mirror.
The reflection stares back, palms up, cupping blood.
It surveys the damage,
and smiles.


- I'm trying to write an essay about the use of the double in certain texts at the moment and it's been interesting thinking about the 'dark other' and how it could take over (eg The Strange Case of Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde). Anyway, I'd love any opinions and helpful criticism!

The Wait

You don’t laugh anymore, I never see you smile.
Your face is pale, your eyes red.
You are getting thinner.
Your clothes hang off you,
balancing delicately on your visible shoulder blades.
You refuse to eat,
it makes you sick.
You count the pills every morning, swallow them
slowly, methodically.
You don’t go outside anymore, you
just stare though the glass, blankly.
Time has slowed and only exists
when it’s time to take the next pill.
You don’t get out of bed anymore, you can’t.
Your dependency makes you feel child-like.
You can only wait.
You don’t long for it
but it seems to be the only answer now. 

Tuesday 9:00 AM by Denver Butson

Tuesday 9:00 AM

Denver Butson

A man standing at the bus stop
reading the newspaper is on fire
Flames are peeking out
from beneath his collar and cuffs
His shoes have begun to melt

The woman next to him
wants to mention it to him
that he is burning
but she is drowning
Water is everywhere
in her mouth and ears
in her eyes
A stream of water runs
steadily from her blouse

Another woman stands at the bus stop
freezing to death
She tries to stand near the man
who is on fire
to try to melt the icicles
that have formed on her eyelashes
and on her nostrils
to stop her teeth long enough
from chattering to say something
to the woman who is drowning
but the woman who is freezing to death
has trouble moving
with blocks of ice on her feet

It takes the three some time
to board the bus
what with the flames
and water and ice
But when they finally climb the stairs
and take their seats
the driver doesn't even notice
that none of them has paid
because he is tortured
by visions and is wondering
if the man who got off at the last stop
was really being mauled to death
by wild dogs.

from Triptych, 1999
The Commoner Press, New York

Copyright 1999 by Denver Butson.
All rights reserved.

Poem by Neil Gaiman

You Fit Into Me

You Fit Into Me
Margaret Atwood

you fit into me
like a hook into an eye

a fish hook
an open eye 

Today

I feel a little trapped within
a cocoon of self-reflection.

It's lonely in here,
but I'm not ready to break out

yet.

Power

My good friend Tom has inspired me to write a poem after we had a discussion about power. You can see his thoughts here: 

http://thomasstewart08.blogspot.co.uk/2012/03/power.html 

It's a good blog and he articulates what he is thinking a hell of a lot better than I do! 

My Mask

My mask is egg-shell blue,

it looks feminine, delicate.

Controlled, purposeful dark navy swirls creep from the base of my neck to my crown,

decoration. 

It is what my mother told me I needed to wear when I was little.

Only show them what you want to show them. You are in control.

This performance, this guise

is what I use to protect myself from you.

But now the paint is flaking and it’s starting to crack.

I’m scared to show you what’s underneath.  

I'm sorry...

The twelve inches between us feel like a desert,

Dead and barren.

You’re upset but I can’t help you,

Not anymore.

My hand hangs limp by my side, but I long to cup your cheek, put your forehead to mine.

I want to cry with you, kiss away your tears; I just want to feel you close to me again.

I see out of the corner of my eye you clench your fist before releasing,

Maybe you can feel it too.

I force myself to look you in the eye.

Darkness, lust, pain, anger.  

I’m sorry for your loss

He nods quickly and I feel my feet carry me into the cold winter breeze,

Away, away from you. 

The Best Friend's Job

You sigh and turn to look out of the window.

The lush green garden beckons you, the old wooden gate at the end

an escape.

And yet,

you turn back to look at her hopeful kind face.

She has this magnetic pull,

an optimism for life that you like.

When you are around her you feel better.

But that’s all.

You’re using her to make you feel good about yourself.

She hasn’t realised it yet, but she will.

She’s beautiful and funny and encouraging.

She praises you, listens to you,

fucks you.

She waits for you, and keeps waiting for you.

You stand her up,

more than once.

She forgives you.

She is not naive, and not stupid.

She’s just fallen for you.

You know all of this, and yet you toy with her.

You’re very own living doll.

I feel the bile rise in my throat as you take her hand and smile indifferently at her,

her bright face beaming back.

She won’t believe me if I tell her, she’ll tell me it’s not true,

‘He tells me things he hasn’t told other people.  He tells me that he loves me’.

And yet when you chuck her back into the dusty toy box, broken,

I’ll be the one that will get her out, dust her off, mend her,

and mop away her tears.

I am the one that truly cares.

You smirk at me and tighten your grip, kissing her lightly on the top of her head.

You know I know.

So I wait.

I will always be there, even if you won’t be

You heartless son-of-a-bitch.

Iceberg

Sometimes

I feel like an iceberg,

only showing one thing or nothing

but underneath a flurry of emotions, feelings and thoughts whir, fighting for my time and attention.

I question and challenge myself daily. I work, I play games, I win.

I plan what I want from the future, the future that will work for me.

I think about my family, my friends. How far away they are, if it is one of their birthdays.

I remember all those who have gone. Where they are and how much I miss them.

I ponder death. What it really means and if I should believe in a religion.

I see something sensational and ask myself could I be brave enough.

I wonder who designs the simple things, like the humble can-opener.

If someone’s in trouble I want to help them, I won’t let them down.

Do I have enough money to last until the next payday?

I wonder if I have made them proud.

I let you see only a part of me.

you believe I’m plain

and simple-

I’m not.

Mince

The way I feel about you is the same as I feel about mince.

It's fun to cook with, adaptable, and tasty

Sometimes there are tough bits, which make you want to chuck the whole lot out

but persevere, take out the gristle 

and what's left is pretty awesome.    

- another attempt at my own poetry. Any feedback is appreciated :)

I Compare You to Binge Drinking by Alissa Rogers

I Compare You to Binge Drinking

by Alissa Rogers

The throbbing headache and nausea
I can endure, I've had worse.
Right now I could cry,
such a raw hope consumed me
as I thought about you, desperate.
It was still dark for me then,
when I needed you. Now it's day.
It brings a true smirk to my face
to know you are nothing more
than a night of binge drinking:
a foolish part of my youth, 
a consequence of boredom. 
I could not hold your liquor,
I vomited all that bile you said to me 
in the hedges outside. Don't fret,
this is not a bad memory, in fact
you might never be a memory at all.
I am well. I will drink better and
far more dangerous poisons. 
I am today, you are only last night.




Another poem I stumbled upon

A Cathartic Moment- Alissa Rodgers

A Cathartic Moment

by Alissa Rogers

I could punch myself in the face
or I could grow up.
None of us, or any of this
is perfect; it's okay to not
measure up. Measure to what?
The beauty of life is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am sitting in the sun.
I can smile.
I forgive myself.
I love
myself.
This is the best poetry I could write.
The beauty of poetry is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am a pearl, however misshapen
I may be the world is my oyster.
It's mine. It's mine. It's mine.
I could get used to that.

Exit Wound by JEANANN VERLEE

Exit Wound

you are an exit wound

the extra shot of tequila

the tangled knot of hair that has to be cut out

you are the cell phone ringing in a hushed theatre

pebble wedged in the sole of a boot

the bloody hangnail

you are, just this once

you are flip flops in a thunderstorm

the boy’s lost erection

a pen gone dry

you are my father’s nightmare

my mother’s mirage

you are a manic high
which is to say:
you are a bad idea

you are herpes despite the condom

you are, I know better

you are pieces of cork floating in the wine glass

you are the morning after
whose name I can’t remember
still in my bed

the hole in my rain boots

vibrator with no batteries

you are, shut up and kiss me

you are naked wearing socks

mascara bleeding down laughing cheeks

you are the wrong guy buying me a drink

you are the typo in an otherwise brilliant novel

sweetalk into unprotected sex

the married coworker

my stubbed toe

you are not new or uncommon
not brilliant or beautiful

you are a bad idea

rock star in the back seat of a taxi
burned popcorn
top shelf, at half price

you are everything I want

you are a poem I cannot write

a word I cannot translate

you are an exit wound

a name I cannot bring myself

to say aloud

-JEANANN VERLEE

I stumbled across this earlier on http://www.stumbleupon.com/su/9kFslf/www.pankmagazine.com/jeanann-verlee/ and I love it.