My Poetry: They Sunbath Under Books

***WARNING CONTAINS ADULT LANGUAGE AND CONTENT***

They sunbath under books

As an excuse not to talk.

His working class body

Pickled with beer and crisp

Evenings in the legion,

While she fed the kids

With scraps of kindness.

A catch of the day

Now rotten, lying by a beach

Tropical rum punch drunk:

'You used to be so handsome,

What happened' she thinks,

'Did the factory steal your hair

Did the fumes bloat your belly...'

He scalds her with whiskey

Her cnut a vase.

'Swallow my seed so it may grow

into another big dumb English rose,

In that pasty dome of yours,'

He cries, but...

The cries barely crack the silence.

Don’t tell me SHE of all people

Is infected with tragedy, he thinks

Drinking poison just to puke it up,

But a bit always remains

Breeding in his gut, mutating

Multiplying maleficent,

A tortuous angry bug gnawing

And he feeds it like a pet

Hoping it will not leave him,

Just as he hopes she won't,

For any friend will do

When the night is filled with razor blades.

She flirts with the black muscle

Her quim quivers, she will fcuk him

One night in the john

When her husband is blind drunk

On bitterness hiding inside The Sun.

Then with a cnut full of seed

She'll tell him,

Tell him her cervix is bloated

That his skinny blue vein

Is an abonination

Till her grabs her and turns her,

So she rises to the ceiling like a creamy blamange

And he fills her with dead seed

And all the while she rubs herself

And is reminded how they used to fcuk

And thinks, perhaps,

She could love him once again, perhaps.

My Poetry: I Watch The Ships Pass

I watch the ships pass

While holding your favourite flower

For Love, like friendship,

Is one long monologue.

I remember the Bookshop

And Kefalonia,

And Boundary Road

Where you introduced me as an old friend.

Remember how we shared kisses

That year Christmas missed us,

Or you singing

A ballad from a hospital bed

About wasting your youth, on being young;

And how, soaked in sadness,

I hid from the sun

An abstract reduction of hope,

A wildflower with no earth.

Now,

After the mourners depart

I recite notes from a Thursday morning

To an empty chair,

The prophets of love

Turned back into ghosts,

Notes on a destiny, ignored

Like a late night apology.

Why? Does the lie and truth

Move like glass

We were the daydreamers once

Now it’s easier to be lonely

By candle light on a gin evening.

My Poetry: A Train Stole The Silence

This poem takes place on the shores of Lake Geneva, Switzerland

Back at tired hotel room,

I become bored of watching

Paint flake off the radiator,

Room haunted by your perfume

Pillows that smell

Of your shampoo.

So pull on jeans to escape,

To edge of the great lake

And that big  friend grew bluer

As the sun bleached the sky

Shades of autumn pastel,

Till finally it was black with grief

From inhaling my anxiety

And the slaps of water on harbour wall

Cried: 'Boy I've known sadness

Only the mountains can understand,

So go get a beer and know death

Will not answer your questions,

But silence is not what it promises

And loneliness is poison

Be careful what you wish for'.

So, because some advice

Is worth taking

I stop by an oak top bar

Where two men and a drum machine

Play lift music to a half empty room

And Franklin glares from picture frame

Young, sad and beautiful as a sunset.

And by the third I didn't feel English

And by the fifth I feel French,

Spiking olives as big and plumb

As a new mother's nipple

And watch a salt and pepper man

Remove his gold and leave his friends

For the dark brunette.

And I think of old Hank

And order another half,

He'd know how to conquer

The fear of you not being here.

'Drink the middle shelf and

Buy that brunette a beer', he'd say

Just to screw with that guy

In his five thousand franc suit.

But instead I head back to today's home

Stop on the way to watch

Silent clouds cloak snow capped mountain

The lake undulating at their feet

Like a lover under finger tips,

And realise tenderness can be

For people like me,

Least while my back is turned

To Montreux and the world.