Skinny's thread

Elegant as ever, your latest have all been dessert for the mind. Loveliness, I needed that.

 

There is no wedding party.
Just the car parked up on the side of the road,
wearing its ribbons a little uncomfortably.

At nine thirty this morning it was feeling prouder
as it was bedecked in bows.
Anticipation hummed under its warming bonnet.

Waiting outside the church while the ceremony took place,
the grille glowed with excitement.
It shone when the photographer bounced his flash
up its flanks and the lady of the hour stepped in.

But now the engine is cold and silent.
The car hugs the kerb, ducking,
as other cars, cars without ribbons, stream past,
with somewhere more important to be.

 

Your strong final stanzas of deluge and Waiting Room,
were much appriciated, as well as the entirety of
Partir and Breakfast in Bed. You continue to shine,
with the luster of a black pearl.

 

i love reading your poetry. just wanted to say that even if i don't comment much or at all on any of these poems, it doesn't mean i'm not reading and enjoying them

 

Jebus, Marriage is gorgeously depressing!!

 

I'm refusing to comment on any past work,
until you post something new...
it has been way too long.

 

Your awesome, thanks for sharing this!

 

Aww I miss skinny.

 

Me too. what happened to her?

 

I didn't write for ages, then got busy, still didn't write.... am around, every so often. love you all xxx

 

The air’s a vice.
We’re sat and itchy. Blank,
Waiting for the big bang, the buzz
the bucking bronco.

The weather’s bananas.
We’re half-baked, poaching in a hot flush
boiling, in this interminable grey.

Storm clouds wrap around each corner
so low, so lethargic.
They sprawl on window ledges,
loll along the pavement,
Teasing us, fat, and boring and relentlessly unenthusiastic.

Come on! Be angry! Quell this frustration,
Bring me some passion!
We’re stifled, soporific,
two muddled, muggy minds
sat seeking inspiration in every passing stranger
but finding only passive, empty eyes.
No indolence, no expression
no riot. The tempest’s heart beats far too far away.

 

That summer the sun hung with a mean yellow glow.
Your garden hazed with mustard gas, tepid, rank and waterlogged.
You said dead dogs were buried under your rusty slide and I believed you.
You dared me to roll around under there and I did,
crushing martian moss and beetles.

We marked our victory over the dead hounds
with a lolly-stick cross and discarded Panda Pops.

We gathered snails that summer. An army of munching, slimy beasts
were imprisoned in the rabbit hutch, and we, the great oppressors
would run naked, whooping, through the unkempt borders,
building briar traps and snaring shins on bark and bramble,
pissing in the wilderness and chasing cats.

 

Whiplash junkie, drive too fast
pierce my shoulders. Your blade too deep, beats
a glockenspiel chime of passing hours.

Busy infestation creeps
this concrete, round mud, skirting.
Sit and watch.
This breeze is spiked.

I am Moscow. Feel so lost though.

Whirl the warming rays of day,
closing down the hillside - trapped me.
They're miraculous, bouncing, sudden.
Glare my eyes bright.
This stone wall, it's
moths and mosses
my old bailey
windswept, whistled.
Caught out stand up hands up

found out. Happy.

 

This is Marlboro county
newly discovered
by the ad execs
and the entrepreneurs
having conversations
in dusty doorways
with young bloods
whose families are old as the hills.

This is a land born
into the information age
too sudden. Swept up
in a furore of regeneration
while the older generations
stay adamantly bemused.

Popart pillbox - there's amusement
gleefully it mocks the road.
It's misery is once more hidden,
trapped in gaudy photographs,
the promise from a lick of paint
calls out to former foes.

This is the new riviera
foetal frames of whitewashed marvel
spring up and congregate the hillsides
a wedding party for east meets west.
An audience for coaches, trailing though the dust
to view the old ways, so long hidden.
Now the lifestyle's in a zoo.

 

We were so close all week
and then
when I found the end of the rainbow, you weren't there.

Were you proud of me, filled with every colour
as I was?

All week we breathed each other
all that smoke and office-stale tongues,
lager lips, and moisture balm.
Tea tree cheeks.

I tasted you on the heel of my palm,
we'd collided, drunk and cocky
pounded the world on each other's clavicles.
The ache was there till Wednesday.

We were on the same pillow.
I could have touched your nose
with the tip of my tongue
while sleeping.

We were taking stairs two at a time
same rhythm, only I lead with the left.

And then I found the end of the rainbow
alone.

I spun to tell you
touch you
thank you
show you
and found only the ghosts of your predecessors.

I was colourful, but stuck in a monochrome home
with a monochrome TV and a monochrome and silent phone.

Tonight we'll share the moment,
but it's a lost moment. The rainbow went away when night came
and this morning October sun came through my sheets
like nothing ever happened.

 

You smelt eiderdown on the wind.

I was hunkered down in my own ballast, veteran
of this man-girl epic,
all absorbed in misplaced time and circumstance.

You crept up honest.

Your bombastic overtures
lured me out with great aplomb,

and now I'm only ducking duvets, chores and bureaucracy,
not great hives of lies and games by proxy.
Your truth storm saturates despair.

 

Annie
Taylor
Rode a dun gelding with spirit.
One morning last easter, our gel
Came a cropper
In a ditch dug by druids
Over Old Sarum way.
Undone was the pony, to see her laid out so; heartstopped, he
Still haunts there, saddle and all.

 

You're good

 

Thanks metalchik

 

Hi Skinny! It's good to see you again. I was wondering what happened to you.