Gold Fish Bowl…

Allow all that I am
to caress your ebb tides slip of water.
As once, only the white debris, from this powdered earth,
travelled the compass’s point.
Now acquaintances both past and new
come blind; each compliant thinking loud your name.
In shallow mounds of comfort,
see how these hands in contour carve
the strips of youth, which feed the baying winds.
I will take nothing – providence be ended here.
Yet should you cast your glance to look
if simply by a chance,
I will know – oh, I will know.
Purging me unsoiled, from this bitter bile of fear.
For I am drowning in this gold fish bowl of life.
My only sin –
was praying with the devil…

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Beautiful Cuckoo…

They will liquidate your strength of mind
for a humble feast of trifling fortune cookies.
Trodden down those heals you wear
though little worn, for apparent show of pride.

Cuckoo in your life of average – you
strike the quarters – whether in or out.
A public box –
A secluded stage –
dance my precious minion;
contradict them all so pitilessly wrong.
For where, tell me, is it embalmed to
say, that beauty only – shall
arouse the tigers ardour; for the taste
of human flesh… –

 

Poppy December 2013

Daddies and Sweets…

It’s drizzling today – but at least it’s warm.
I sit, legs dangling on the sandstone garden wall.
I am trying hard,  to make my final sweet
last, until tea time
yet I somehow doubt it will.

There’s a man in with Mama who I don’t recall
ever seeing before.
They are sitting side by side eating strawberries
I really hope they save some for me.
Their voices are low – but every now and again,
I can here Mama laugh.
She doesn’t laugh that often – I guess
that’s how I notice it so, when she does.

I swallow my sweet, feeling annoyed with myself
for being so  greedy.
I wish they would hurry up and finish whatever
it is, they’ve got to say.
Eventually I hear the sound of the front door being shaken open.
Sometimes in the really wet weather
the door sticks – Mama hit it with a pick axe once.
Made no difference other than it broke the door handle.
For months afterwards we used a spoon to turn the lock until
an old friend finally came to fix it – ‘free of charge‘ Mama said.

Finally side by side out that came  – he looked kinda nervous to me.
Mama acted  all surprised on seeing me sitting there.
Can’t think why – she had told me to sit here.
She started making funny head gestures towards the house.
I jumped down from the wall – but not before
the man  had strolled  towards me.
I could smell those strawberries on his beer laden breath.

He took some sweets from his pocket, holding them out to me.
Mama nodded for me to accept – so I took them from him.
My fingers were soon expertly rummaging
in amongst the bright coloured wrappers looking  for my favourite.
Some of Mamas words  got a little lost as I unwrapped the sweets.
However, I think I heard her say
‘Mary, say hello to your new Daddy’.
Cool I smiled – at least this one brings me sweets…

Poppy December 2013 ~xx~

Lizards…

The light is set to early summer,
performing her games of hide go seek.
I think of you often caught between the gloss
and brittle bones, of lovers past.

Tequila are the sunrises; rattling
chinks of treacherous ice.
Dead bodied whiskey slammers,
red cherried parasols for the ladies, ring pulls
for the uninspired man.

Hedonistic days drift upstream
sucking on their ambition
far into the night.
Contaminated air –
laden heavy to breathe.
As we like lizards on heat
slide elongated from our rock.

I have captured the silence
of your body’s landscape.
Spaces carved deep; forbidden,
untouchable, far out of reach.
I would be ruined to tell you I miss you:
Just believe you are a hard habit to break…

Poppy ~xx~

Featured in MadSwirl
12th December 2013  (thanks guys – you are stars)!

 

Pain Relief…

“It isn’t, like taking an aspirin”
you say.
“Go ask the Doc – only time can heal
my errant past”.
I sigh, sitting watching the space between
us, becoming ever more undone.

I am not a saint – I’m well aware of that.
I am just me;  an ordinary woman
struggling alone; to stem what has
fast become, our retreating subsistence.

I bid you to finish your meal –
In this life; not in the next.
You reply:
“I want us to sleep on the rug tonight
like newly weds curled up by the fire”.
Yet for reasons, unknown  –  what seems
a sensual sentiment   does not quite
make contact with your eyes.

Sighing, I close the door behind me.
I  shall leave you to your own sterile crusade.
I am much preferring  my bed –
along, with a little something, to quickly
take away this constant  pain.
For time, is something that I know:
‘We’ do not have.

Poppy December 2013 ~xx~