Skinny's thread

Discussion in 'Poetry' started by littleskinny, May 31, 2004.

  1. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    Yeah I know I said I wouldn't do it again, but I am....

    Enjoy and please feel free to comment in this thread!

    Skinny
     
  2. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member



    My hands
    help me to understand the world I'm seeing.
    My taste-buds are not always so helpful
    in my quest for understanding.

    But then again, my thirst for knowledge
    should not be confused
    with my wonder at solid food.

    Contemplation
    Takes so much effort and concentration
    And I'm so frustrated at the fact
    that my eyes refuse to stay open!!

    I don't know these words yet
    and by the time I do I'll have long forgotten
    all the things my early childhood had to say.
     
  3. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    Two days before D-Day a young man died,
    in an accident, on a road, in Kent.

    He never saw the littered beaches
    or the sacrificed French towns that marked the route to liberation.

    He never posed with a captured swastika
    for the photographer with his new-fangled colour contraption.

    He never handed his girl nylon stockings
    and her heart's only desire.
     
  4. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    The city is gnarled. It stares inwards, listless.
    Resignation painted all over the tall, dusk lit buildings
    which stand uneasy like old teeth.
    Busy roads run over exposed gum between the gaps.
    The rain washes over everything like palsy saliva,
    forcing bacteria and umbrellas into the buildings and under the ground,
    to futher the decay.
     
  5. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    The rosebud dances,

    Sways alone.

    Its latex leafwear entrances,

    as do tiny red lips poking through the restraints.

     
  6. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    White Lightening and Marlboros
    (purchased by the boy who looked oldest)
    were distributed. All set.

    We giggled and swaggered and swore our way
    to the great iron gateway outside St John's.
    With hard-earned skill we overcame this daunting man-made boundary
    and with foreboding that never seemed to go away,
    we shouted and hollered,
    overcoming the spiritual boundary that surrounds a graveyard at night.

    Michael tripped over that branch again,
    we laughed ourselves senseless and clutched our guts.
    And when the roaring of cider-soaked teens subsided
    we hissed at each other to shush,
    whilst watching the windows of the parsonage
    for the flick-on of lights.

    None came and so we continued our stroll,
    smoking like movie stars and throwing things
    making our way to our usual spot -
    the memorial slab of Jacob Mallory, departed this world 2nd June 1945.

    Imagine our shock as we approached
    to see a figure huddled there.

    Guilt and vomit. The parson? A tramp?

    We froze.

    The figure unhuddled and turned to face us.
    White as the label on our cider bottle the figure shimmered.
    We sank to the moss.
    The pitiful figure sobbed and said "Do you know what I am reduced to?"

    Becca, (who knows nothing of these things), whispered, "you are an angel!"

    "No longer an angel"

    The figure shrugged and to the ground fell feathers and sinew and bone.

    "I am destined to carry more than my weight in flight.
    I am human now and must carry the weight of the world"
    With a heavy sigh, the angel curled up, and Jacob Mallory became a pillow of despair.

    We gulped, as one, a chorus of gulps. Then we upped and left it there.

     
  7. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    You joke over beers
    assuming your demise never crossed my mind.
    I see sandstorms have re-clogged your emotion filters.
    Well, you should know that mine overflowed lately
    and I fell short of breath,
    not helped by my rib-cage being three sizes smaller,
    since my lungs expanded to accommodate grief.

    The weight of not knowing was an unwieldy burden,
    strapped every day to my thorax on waking,
    and now you laugh, having never considered
    that if I was lucky, I'd be told by a newsreader.

    'Where-ever I fall, just leave me there - these memorials mean nothing to me,'
    It is true: what use has a dead man's carcass for a carved slab of stone?
    But you fail to realise, on your island of self, that it isn't about you:

    it's about those you leave at home.

     
  8. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    Scampering demons,
    abacus particles,
    latch onto one another,
    growing infinitely in long combinations
    and shrinking indefinitely in meaning
    to the unintitiated and unprepared.

    We religiously trap them behind bars:
    each one has its own cell,
    in wings called Debit and Credit and Balance.
    Somehow they always manage to clump together in Debit wing,
    having fled from Credit
    and seeking exile from Balance.
    And we can only watch in despair as
    they reproduce in a devilishly calculated fashion.
     
  9. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    I had no plan today.
    No plan for the whole weekend.

    Half a jar of Sunpat lines my stomach because it is protein.

    I resist the free broadband connection,
    that open invitation to
    parties of imaginary friends
    and forums where literary good fortune abounds.

    (Oh! I love it!)

    I'm growing immune to the vague smell of
    dead fish
    that floats under the door of my
    calm and tranquil living space
    when the rubbish bags pause en route to their final decomposition.

    Listening to other people's
    specifically homosexual problems through
    single coated walls.

    Relishing that these aren't my problems
    and that I can return the favour
    throughout the duration of my self-imposed house arrest
    by playing downloaded metal mayhem.

    Thereby undermining the music industry but also the
    calm and tranquil living space
    the architect intended.

    I feel blackheads bubbling on my nose and on the walls of my shower.

    As I lie lamenting the uneventful whiteness of the ceiling, my
    calm and tranquil living space is
    devoid of life.
     
  10. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    This purple jumper once seduced like the night.
    It clings to me
    as you did
    on the hard cold earth beneath that bush
    when the wet nosed mutt investigating
    caused us to freeze
    and stifle giggles.

    This purple jumper just about fits me now,
    I have grown plumper
    as have you
    since those frivolous days when we frolicked in hiding
    defying our elders and wisers
    trying not to be caught, yet
    completely shameless.

    This purple jumper has faded and thinned.
    We are both colourblind,
    immune to its charms.
    The associated memory of teenage exuberance
    has been lost over time
    replaced by homely pottering,
    by shepherds pie and comfort.
     
  11. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    Swollen plastic bags containing ash
    and dead pizza patiently awaiting
    a trip down the garden

    kicked in the gut by a boot
    expounding false understanding of how
    the pyramids were built.

    Bubbles clouding on mugs
    and fingers and pans from last time we
    bothered to cook over

    a week ago. But this is the last
    obstacle of Sunday morning
    and then Sunday is mine.

    I heard you both step off the train
    a mile away and your chitter and bravado
    disturbing the weekend all the way back

    to 300 yards from the house,
    where I hear you inhaling
    cheap smokes and coughing.

    Cursing the binbags you hunt
    down your keychain. Scratching
    the door through lack of concentration and

    all the time, baritone explanation
    of hauling chunks of rock
    uphill. Armies of slaves.
     
  12. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    I'm struggling to plait the sinews back together
    in my sunlit bedroom
    where you lie on the memorial slab
    you said you didn't want.

    Well
    they gave you a symbolic send off.

    Draped the flag over the ply box to suffocate you
    and over the altar to suffocate God
    and I was naked standing in the centre of the nave
    and someone wrapped the flag around me too
    in case I was cold and missing the warmth of patriotism.

    It burnt me, my shoulders, my breasts.

    I ran to you past the politicians sobbing
    and over that abominable noise I heard
    your elbows striking the walls of ply as you

    turned and turned and turned.

    I heard your silent scream in my sleep
    I hugged my scorched cheeks and limbs.

    I answered your silent scream and found you and brought you home
    which is all I ever wanted. And I can see in your eyes
    you admit now
    that's all you ever wanted too,
    to be at home, in my bed, in my arms.
    And I see the anguish in your glassy stare
    that I got burnt.

    It won't be long now. I found your books
    that tell me about surgery in ditches and village medicine
    and see, I may not have an egg whisk, but I do have
    knives and needles and thread!
    And although the pictures are hard to follow, I think I've got it
    I'll soon have you patched up and right as rain.

    You just lie there a while and recover. I'll get washed and hold you again soon.
     
  13. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    I have carefully burrowed myself
    into the sand and scrub,
    I am well dug in, camouflaged, comfortable.
    I have allowed the elements to give my armour a tan.

    I stand proud in obsolescence,
    immune as scavengers pluck used parts
    from my backside and belly,
    silently waiting as passers-by pose for photographs.

    (the foreigners only.
    The resident goats no longer notice me.)

    And all the time I point to the sky
    waiting for the moment
    when I can shoot down the Prophet
    and have my revenge.
     
  14. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    That parting kiss
    took my breath away.

    Smiling, I stumbled backwards and bade you farewell,
    pushing the door to behind you,
    and sinking down onto the lino, to sigh awhile.

    When I awoke from my reverie
    I summoned the verve to get up and on,
    and sighed once more, one last time.

    I felt my lungs freeze
    split
    I choked on the liquid that seeped into my throat.
    I couldn't see the lumps
    that came out of my mouth
    for the mist in front of my eyes.

    I picked up handfuls of this excrement to look closer
    only to drop it
    and gaze at my black swollen fingers
    with nails fake from a halloween party.
    My gut was swollen and yellow
    heaving in nausea at my state.....

    ....a mental projection onto my physical being
    no more reactions as my nervous system stopped

    but not before I had time to see the wistful loving smile
    with which I bade you farewell
    projected onto the wall before me
    as a death mask.
     
  15. I have been looking forward to reading more.. you don't disappoint... you have a smoldering sensuality in your writing. You are lyrical and humorous as well... more please!

    Thanks for sharing!
     
  16. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    Thank you for reading StarGateKeeper! I'm glad you enjoyed the trip so far...I feel all warm inside....:D
     
  17. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    Miss Drydock was confusing
    to the boys in my school.

    Prim glasses, worn sometimes on her nose,
    sometimes on her tightly pulled back forehead,
    were the hard-earned mark of her profession.

    Bony and brittle
    and veiny, she was a dried leaf
    on the soil she would get so excited about.

    Soil, her great passion, would make her trill
    and flutter, forcing her glasses down her nose
    until it became beak-like, and we became worms under the blackbird's gaze.

    She would throw
    clipped reprimands
    whenever the population of Rio de Janeiro
    eluded the front row.

    And yet
    when that happened
    she caused faint stirrings in that front row,
    her twitching, bee-stung ribcage
    steaming glasses and snapping pencils

    as though her bubble gum coloured top
    promised raspberry flavoured kisses
    and her vanilla spindle arms
    a year's supply of ice cream.
     
  18. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    We all enjoyed
    a fateful numbness in our purring cabins
    with the heater on our feet and
    the glow-worms on the dashboard
    dancing.

    Sometimes the radio
    caressed us. Classical comforts
    imprinted these final moments so mournfully.

    Father turned the wheel
    relentlessly away from the drowsy orange city.
    On the bridge, brief glimpses of the
    Intercity fleeing
    back to the centre of the earth
    where the real people lived.

    And down the hill we would go
    one after another;
    the rear end of the Volvo ahead
    recognised by the signal and turn

    it made away from the orange city
    and promises.

    Slowly toward the winking mirror,
    the siren at the end of the black driveway,
    luring headlights and capturing

    beady flashes; catapulting them
    onto the oil slicked windows of
    the Headmistress's study,
    which lit up ghostly
    but briefly,
    before dissolving
    black into Sunday night.
     
  19. VanAstral

    VanAstral Member

    ahh... this is better... a whole, long thread of inspiration!

    what took ya so long?
     
  20. littleskinny

    littleskinny Member

    I thought it would piss people off cos it's really up yer own arse to have your own thread. Then I figured it would piss people off less than if I posted all my poems individually and pushed everyone else off the page..... ta for reading! :)
     

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