Postcards…

“Parisian food is to die for” – you wrote.
“Even the rain tastes of fine château wine.
I am poisoning myself in style.
Boring does not exist here.
Paris is utterly divine and the company sublime.
May my journey never end.

Miss you.
Love and all that stuff
Write again soon.
From me; the travelling man”!

xxxx

A hastily scribbled postcard written on some
stop over along the way.
No, wish you were here –

You selfish sod!

Removing my hands from the washing up bowl
I began to wonder if I had invented you.
Pouring myself a glass
of cheap nom de plume plonk
I began to destroy your card word by word.
Rearranging the cuttings made me smile…!

“Parisian food is poisoning me.
The wine tastes of rain.
Boring here.

Miss you and all that divine company
my fine sublime love”!

There; now you did exist
and this card was much more
of my liking… –

Poem Of The Day

Poppy August 2013

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Dead Ends…

The house with
it’s broken glass
unbearable cigarette stench
sporadic neon lights
coats on the bed – her head your face.
My mind a sprawling avenue
filled with images
I should never have seen.

Silence
born out of shame
when three is a crowd, not part of the game.
Forgiveness begged for like a dog on all fours.
Tossed frenzied words
somewhat laughable; so completely absurd.

The snow had begun to fall
long before the last guests left.
Each clutching their party bags tight.
Reminders of something –
I can’t quiet recall.

It clung thick
like new baked bread.
White in all its wholesomeness
accept where man, had tainted
the barren, fresh, virginal margins.
Leaving traces of tracks
each going absolutely nowhere.

 

Poppy August 2013 ~xx~

Malignant…

Love such a malignant disease
clothed in jesters courtly colours.
Dog drawn jowls; hangings of euphoria
overwhelming, coercing us into spaces,
then running blind, like new born mice.
Loves light, is neither of dawn nor night
pursuing us; as if the morning, caught the night
totally unaware.
As the hunger inside the belly grows, growling
like some pillaging lioness,
love obliterates; scything all
within its path
.
Sensibility out stretches her wings,
free falling as she plummets.
Corridors of silver moons rekindle foolish thoughts.
One temperate touch, mingles  needful expectations .

Terms of written endearments missile the mat.
Engaged telephone wires, carrying strands of
sugar spun affection.
The heart is hooked – left hanging on the line.
Only this time, there will be – no turning back.

Poppy August 2013 ~xx~

Skimming Stones…

 

We sit
paper chains and daisies,
as puffed up clouds, roll slowly overhead.
We send words back and forth
wrapped in the nothingness of futile empty banter.

Further, along the beach, I watch a little boy
send his yellow kite soaring higher ever higher.
His laughter being carried far out to sea
I need to be that kite –
As liberated as the wind sees fit to make me.

Don’t ask me to look at you
painted smiles, theatrical masks.
It’s not much of me to ask.
It wounds to think of you and me
No, I will not give permission
for you to read me anymore.
That book has long been closed.

Oh, how I hate Sundays –
Sunday bloody Sunday as boring as hell.
What is wrong with me – why can’t I feel
the sun on my face?
Go –!
I want to sit skimming my stones
applauding out loud – as they dance across,
the big, wide open water.

 Poppy August 2013 ~xx~

The Extravagent Couple…

On the table,  white a cloth spread for tea.
Gathered fallen, home grown blooms, lie wilting
amid the evenings supper crumbs.
Outside in the fading light
tall poplars stoop to low, green upon green.
Dusk has fallen – chasing day lights end.

Mismatched knives and forks
chipped blue china
relics off a bygone age.
A crackling ember fizzles to powder grey.
Close the curtains –
come here beside me; and lay.

The clock ticks away these rare molten days.
You do know, that I love you now, as I loved you then?
Clouds oh, they have massed
veiled the us, from view.
Battles that we fought
with tired eyes; glancing each other down.
Sucked dry the marrow, from our bones,
the insidious hating of a love gone wrong.

Yet here we are
still caught  in the extravagance of us.
Neither – desiring or requiring to be free…

Poppy August 2013

White Lady…


Hidden are her depths
a little out of touch
always curious; flaunting on the eye
of reality –
She is who she is
brown bed of earth she sleeps.

Skeins of petals fallen
collected endings, both
exquisite and excessive.
Softly muted, hastily trodden underfoot
yet not to die: in dormant she but lies.

Stands open the mouths of
cold stone men.
You who stare about her visions view
of flowing veins – she dances arabesque.

Given not to utterance: yet sleep her time
she will.
Until one bright, new spring day; luck
shall let you meet again.

Poppy August 2013

She Breathes…

She breathes this City of mine
gently perspiring, fashions latest
designer toxic vapours
whilst neon pulses flow through
 her veins – sleep does not,
become her.
Suited booted –
Gucci, Prada
sell your soul for a
fix of life.
Doorways, doormen
park your car sir –
can’t sleep here man.
Oh how she breathes.
Call girls; rent boys –
watch your back in alleyways
sideshows, cinema, theatre
for the wealthy
24 hour takeaways – not
for the healthy.
Hit men, con men
Religion for the Amen
Oh, how she breathes
this City of mine…

Published in
DAGDA’s Concrete Jungles