Skinny's thread

Brunel's girders shift, this seam's,
rivets crunch and squeal
as the night-express passes over.

Then silence, other than the distance sighs of
further ravished tracks.

Iron relaxes, as the smuggled traveller gets his bearings,
crouches, peers into the shadows. Finds the tunnel,
scampers into darkness.

His footprints rape discarded bricks, corrode the sleepers.
His departure burns down trees and twists the rails,
white hot and spitting venom at the moon.

 

*smiles* Well described sentiments. Just feels right somehow....that got imprinted in my brain. Excellent poem with your striking tantalizing style.

PS. Haven't talked with ya in a while!

 

This line made me smile and scratch my head at the same time. :sunglasse

 

My boss had kidney stones. Made me think if he was dumped in a river he'd drown...

 

Infidelity was a joy to read, LittleS! I loved the last two stanzas, packed with bold images... the flow was quick and spot on! Thanks for sharing this

 

Toastcrumbs attached to my toes
trace the wending way back to your side on the sofa.
Feet up and under my butt, and your shoulder
a pillow. Your fingers are cold.

The newspaper print on my fingers and cushions tells
stories backwards, sometimes upside down.
Irrelevant now that you're here, firm and laughing,
stealing my biscuits and drinking my milk.

Scolding you for the Olympic emblem you've drawn
on the table top with coffee mugs.
And for having the volume too loud
and not listening.

I'm watching you gaze at away, sick of waiting
and this space, domestic, is boredom enshrined.
The print smudge reads rightways in your skull, I know this.
It's filed for departure. My sofa's the lounge.

 

Your ruby lids are not tearstained but shadowed.
The fascination with the depths of your Pina Colada
is a decoy. A Do Not Disturb sign hung from your brow.

Nails called Coral clink the rim, and fiddle.
The plastic bit on the parasol broken,
the pink frill remains permanently shut.

And you are tight-lipped under my feeble interrogation.
Odd words escape me. I see a fool bounce back at me,
reflected in your glass complexion. I wish I could read
the fading blue ink on the back of your hand.

It would tell me something about you.
Who you meet. The kind of things you tend to forget.

I watch your pale veins absorb the memoir
over the days we sit in silence. I drink too much
and the fool laughs loudly and goes red.
Your eyes remain fixed on ash on the table,
humming lullabies to keep the brain cells ticking
planning a future I'll never see.

 

Playful and messy comforts abound here like tickling conversations. Tense intimacy lingering among the shared cushions. I continue to marvel.

 

Thanks for reading Sylvan...I'm grateful.

 

I apologise for the air conditioning,
the pock-marked windows,
the mildew.
For the flaking paint over the shower,
for the hair and dust in the bath.
For the temperamental CD player
and bad reception.
For the slats in the bed that move with every intake of breath.

I apologise for the tumble dryer
that scars everything with creases,
and the iron that keeps me looking unkempt.
For all the socks I've shrunk this year
and all the glasses I've left suds on.

Every book I've borrowed but not returned,
the videos gathering dust. I'm guilty
of donning stockings on a full moon only,
of slouching and being too slow.
For boredom and indecision, I'm sorry,
for whining and cursing and passion.
Demanding and playing and juvenile sulking.

I forget myself sometimes.

 

Drowning together; intoxicating distance of unspeakable cheers. No recommendations arise to hug you with their exile... not save the click clack of dark circles mixed smoky; ephemeral praises to the great spirit of your loves. A welcoming return.

 

Pink lace
reminds me of a weekend in Cheshire where
an Anglican vicar told me
French knickers were better than thongs.

I wore a man's shirt, quite vile patchwork in
red and orange, a sunset blister on my
English complexion and hid my limbs
under crisp white sheets at light's out.

It snowed that weekend. We fed donkeys
apples stolen from the refectory and mints.
The vicar ate cheese and bread at breakfast and
taught us folk songs.

The evening service moved me. My damp meditation
of cold stone and dark wood was on the smell of wax
and adolescent arousal and filled me up
with the murmur and whisper of Holiness.

I was singed with incense. We all had muddy boots
after that long walk, and wet hair from the snowballs
flung in gay communion in the lane. Greeted by
an open fire, I was consumed, and all but taken in.

 

Yes,
you have already told me
the story about the time William wallopped you with
a hoover hose and it was so flaccid you fell about laughing
and the kink was all over before it had begun but ever since
you've remained curious and would I oblige you?
You tell me every time you get drunk on
peach schnapps that you kissed a woman once and knew from that moment that
sexual liberation is an amazing thing that everyone should try at least once.
And yet
here we are again, staring at
your vomit on cracked tiles because dutch courage
overwhelmed you and now I'm calling us each a taxi and we're going home
alone.

 

Such a girl indeed. Forgetting herself, in gentle acceptance. I loved the poem and found no criticism or modifications needed. Selecting a part to emphasize would be to reprint the poem.

 

Woah, what a great ending!

I thoroughly enjoyed all of your latest pieces, and "such a girl" was my favorite, such a powerful piece of work! "the art of seduction" blew me away as well, I found it humorous in a sad kind of way.... thanks for sharing more of your beautiful words!

also, am I imagining things, or did your age go up a number over there? if so, happy belated b-day!

 

The difference between then and now,
is that freedom, then, was simpler.

A little planning,
a big imagination, and
dreams were solace.

Smuggled chocolate biscuits,
one a week,
up my sleeve,
up the stairs,
under the pillow.

Car seat
a throne.
Surveyed my empire
through dusty windows.
Practiced the Great Escape in the playground.

That morning
I wore my bridesmaid's dress.
I left through the living room window.
Barefoot, I reached the end of the close.

Then ran home again.

I was a mermaid then.
Out of place for a reason.
My tail would grow back
once I had enough chocolate biscuits
to take me out to sea.

 

Wearing a mask of envy and nausea
I removed a thousand hearts from the chests of dolls,
discarded their synthetic peach flesh
and now sit stringing
the little red jewels
one by one
to the hairs on my head.

This beaded curtain will hang
before my eyes from now onwards.
Every time you avoid my gaze,
a little plastic heart will shatter.

And then my own heart will take note, and
count down the lessons
one by one
until the red haze lifts.

 

These poems are truly inspiring.

Thank you skinny!

 

I was once adored.
Ridden daily, caressed by
breeches, manhandled.
A crop broke in these shining flanks,
the dapples there
glow pink
from time to time.

The house is quiet now.

My teeth sink through this snaffle
lick the splinters.
Soggy boredom.

Pull my forelock when you're passing
and I'll rock for you.

I've not forgotten how.

 

Shane, thank you for taking the time to read..!