Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Joseph Burley Sep 2012
The Lung.

The broken bone branches hang heavy off knuckled tree. As cold and uninviting as wrapped meat in cellophane prison cells and those sweating milk bottles left on doorsteps. Women cry with the blackbirds as day breaks, rousing their reluctant nests.
As the shadows trawl in from chicken farms and slaughterhouses, across the squalid estates and past a debt collectors party. A ***** drinks his soot like coffee and waits for another years tide to retreat. Holding pith less ambitions and unmentionable qualifications, stewardess pass, uniformed thoughts and averting faces..
The rusty playgrounds sink into the fermenting wood chips, and a plastic bag runs through the scene; only to commit suicide in the oil ribbon canal. The chemical clouds thicken into a duvet of sky whilst  arrows of a natural sun run home with tears of fear on their hot faces.
Down here the street lights flicker, and the patched uniforms drape off children sick with the flu that hit the school like a plague. Herding like cattle into the classrooms, to learn about the natural world
that is most unearthly to there reason.
Lunch bells ring from factories and the sky has drained to a sick -off white. The chip shop sells butties with no sauce nor bun, which machine like men guzzle and slurp.
The car parks lay stagnant in the distance and pigeons too fat to fly lay droppings on the bronze statue of a crying hero. As the roaring stops from the factories and high visibility coats are hung,  the sky bruises and the men fill the pubs, until wives with children hung on washing lines drag there sweat soaked frames to the table, only to indulge them in a row.
Night creeps in, bringing with it the hooded figures that flutter along the streets. Music plays from a vacant building and seems to brighten the night.
A silhouette is seen standing on the edge, watching the busses bellow run like migrating snails, filled with the elderly and too young.
Cigarettes infest the streets creating a carpet of ash and litter. The city survives, remaining grey, never blinking, never heard.
Joseph Burley Sep 2012
I will not stand at your grave
holding to a thought
constantly thinking it would leave me and escape.
I cried when time stripped from me the memory of your face.
I became tired of waiting
and like, when we were children, I slammed doors and bought blue to my face.
You starved me of my sleep, but now you starved me with your silence
when once it was your words
Now your infuriating chatter is all I long for
and yet you starve me still.
How can you take from me myself and you?
I will not stand at your grave
I will not look sad, I can not
I am no longer me.
And how dare you shield your face from me?
How, after so much thought
you starve me still, and then
you appear to me, as clear as my own face is now
You come and laugh,
A cruel trick; and yet when you stand there
That boyish smile
(How I envied your good looks)
Why do you never speak?
To have your words taken from me
I should shout
But you’ve taken my words too
and left me with this world
this unwanted time
I will not stand at your grave.
You shall stand at mine.
Joseph Burley Sep 2012
Keep your nose to the grindstone
echo and boom.
Tucked in shirt and buttoned blue collars.
Coffee, no milk, no sugar.
Pagans in a pageant
lifting slabs with slack hands.
Old muscles knotted and torn
a drone sound, stillborn as the childless playground.
Mocking and mundane
the bell rings and shatters the silence
leaving tools on the floor and empty parking spaces.
Nothing left but the weep of pigeons in the rafters
and the breeze that arrives
only after the workers departure.
Joseph Burley Sep 2012
Very soon after the storm they found paint drops on the sea floor.
Scientists in starched aprons looked puzzled at graphs and lab lights.
The tea cups rattled on their saucers for sixteen days
and widows opened windows once again.
The poles turned their magnets off,
and captains wrecked their ships on rocks.
They broke the silent news, he’s dead,
whilst school boys patiently made their beds.
Joseph Burley Sep 2012
he had eyes to tell
stories with no words
broken windows
into a chaotic soul

only when light of laughter
shot through his face
would the shutters flutter open

and there in that eclipse
between darkness and light
you could see the space
full of pain
all the memories
unselected and pure

in those moments
when my eyes were told quick stories
I saw my reflection
and it knew nothing

— The End —