I am a photographer living in York. I like to write poetry and short stories - I'm working on a boo of photos and poems which I am hoping will be like a very cool coffee table type book. I have had a couple of short stories published and a couple of poems and this year I have decided that I want to get involved in some poetry reading, which I am very nervous about! I like coffee and cheesecake but a coffee cheesecake I had once was disgusting err... well what else would you like to know?
CROSS AND PASSION Voice like a buried machine, I eat and hurl the days events, Cast down from eyes of fire. I reject you, I detest you, I vomit you. Later in the growing garden with deadened birds, And patrolling cats and watching Lions, I tried to speak, to ask , to know If your fear was my fear or from my pain, You choked a little, gagged a little And threw my vice into the sun, Chatting about how rampant fierce darkness reigns. I find you intolerable, you found me drunk, Washing my brain with soap and my hands in blood And shit and stink and earth, You choked and laughed as my veins grew dim and pale, I choked as your hair ran in your arms and through your hands And in my neck and in my eyes. But when the night came and the moon basking frog shouted And boasted with bloated throat I formed the cross and the passion with my body And lost. TREASURE "Here's to the end" He shouts with a voice of chipped grey concrete dancing down the path and turning, turning away from the faces lit by orange street lamps. I listened and tried to hold in my hand The feeling, the light of what may lay ahead But it dripped through my fingers and burned through the floor and vanished into the earth beneath the earth. I walked on with a sunken head and craned neck, hands buried in my pockets, hiding from the sun, feeling for treasure, which I never put in there. I turned corners I walked and wanted to rekindle the lust that youth had given me, in a mahogany box lined with silk and wrapped in ribon. But I buried that box and burned the map. " Scent In the morning I awoke To your scent still clinging to the pillow As a false truth and a lingering goodbye That your lips would never whisper. After, the darkened sun of a snowy morning came Tried to brighten the darkened stained sheets Lipstick rubbed on the pillow - scarring the white forever I showered, tried to rub off the scent and stench of you, of us Bleach and soap and scouring pad left me raw open but still you, in me, on me remained - smirking behind your rose petal virused skin. In trying to forget I remember - too well - too close - too red Your pouting lips and flirtatious hair defied each brutal stroke of soap soaked flannel I gauged my nails to rid of skin, of sin, of weak and beaten flesh But your scent still clings to the pillow, to the sheets and carpet - though fading I reek of you Control I walk down my street as the crowds gather, where certain feet stagger and young dumb guns swagger, i walk down my street and see them waiting, wasteing awayor whineing away about not pressing the button to let the green man light the way. They talk of people in places of the dailey races, they talk in tonguesin ancient verse, in unrehearsed verse, in violent groans and destitute groansas i walk by. I feel their eye curse my hair and my face and my feet, I feel their tongue exploreme and taste round me. I feel them spit Venom from fasionable denim as my silent shoes slip by. I know them these fools - I know them, I let them talk and walk and hearand see, I let them push pushchairs and prams and walk dogs on my street. laugh spit laugh and the tracksuit monks let rip theirunappeal on the casual eye on the ocassional sigh of the high. I take them in mind and feel myhead grow and the power surge and the need to blow and i target a man with a slower pace than my own and i ready the pusle, ready the beam to take out his life with one quick thought and i am ready to fire and on the word go i stop and it stops and I calm and it calms and the man carries on even though he'll never know how close he came to dieing today. I have control.
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
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