And the Lord said, “Get thee bent!”
Here your empty money’s all spent
Among the **** and ashes of last month’s rent,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
I’m a bit of a disco dancer,
Frequent romancer
That half pint, any change? Bit of a chancer.
I would read her star sign
But I know its cancer,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No easy escape,
From that ****** that vapes,
On the bar stool under the gym.
He eyes up the napes,
Of the barmaid’s shapes
Who looks like that girl in his ***** tapes,
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
No crisp fiver,
Just her salvia,
Dripping from your lips and gubbins.
Behind the red eyes and fag-end nubbins,
You love those filthy, back street rub-ins.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
You just go home,
Another sexless twilight roam,
You smash up some middle class **** called Jerome.
Hair full sweat, you’d **** for a comb,
It is me or the ***** or just a syndrome
Face full of holes like honeycomb,
You just can’t write anymore of this poem,
And think to yourself “well, when in Rome”
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
In the dead end downs, that is my town.
Aug 23, 2018
Aug 23, 2018 at 11:36 AM UTC
When she's cried the same old cries again.
When we type the same old lines again.
When I've spent the ******* time again.
When do we make it stop?
When she says let's start again again.
When we kiss after words retch again.
When I explain it more than twice again.
When do we make us stop?
When she plans to have a meal again.
When we are told what to feel again.
When I've cut out my tongue again.
When will it have to stop?
When she says that I don't care again.
When we talk about what's fair again.
When I've stared and forget to listen again.
When do we know it's stopped?
When she ***** my head with my fist again.
When we **** when we're too ****** again.
When I've never realised it before again.
When it's all about to stop.
When she says I'll always love again.
When we promise no fights tomorrow again.
When it's whispered every night again.
When we've stopped.
By JWS
Aug 7, 2016
Aug 7, 2016 at 6:32 PM UTC
At Fuller's emporium of whiskers and wine,
As matches are struck on the no smoking sign.
Mr Terry Fuller, of reddened face refined,
Regiments and orders his elbows aligned;
With stories of rumour, football, *******
Thieves, my boy and across Texas by trucking.
He loudly regales to the spirits of faces,
"Me and my boy have been to some places, we've seen some girls, he gave em' rub,
As I was too busy running the pub."
Howling as they're told, sighing in ease,
Mr Daniels accusing "who's round is it please?"
When shadowed in doorway, tip-toes, a pale boy.
Stringy, svelte and painfully coy.
Debate is lulled, as men catch scent.
"Don't come in here boy, or your money'll be spent."
Roaring,rumbling, the boy unsettled in mirth.
"He can't buy any beer, he's only just had his birth."
Half-pint of breath, the boy stammers to say.
"I just was curious, i mean, I ask, if I may-"
A bellowing fanfare, "Speak up or go away!"
"I just wanted to know what you do with your day?"
Mr Fuller, heaving his pink smirking bulk, anchored by his drink.
"We work, we go home and we pub till we sink."
Troughs raised in toast, raining down on bald heads.
As the boy puzzling thinks what the bulbous man said.
"Then tomorrow" yelped the youth.
"What do you do after that?"
"More of the same, till God's on the mat!."
Throned by grey faces, blanketed in smoke,
As the toothless, eggs titter at the nonsensical joke.
Raising a tiny limb, "So this happens everyday?"
Mr Fuller rubbed his hands, "I wouldn't have it another way."
The alphas puffing , guffawing, dribbling beer down chins. And for blood-vesseled faces another story begins.
As the silhouetted boy under a veil of tears, whispers "I'm so sorry" and leaves.
In Fuller's emporium a silence ensued,
The sound sat between them and quietly chewed.
Every brow furrowed, as the beer didn't flow.
A quiet conclusion.
"The youth of today what do they know!"
JWS
Dec 5, 2015
Dec 5, 2015 at 10:21 AM UTC
The Politician Nigel Farage,
Fancied a saucy massage,
He had quite a shock,
As she couldn't see his ****
Which she claimed "Was a mere mirage."
JWS
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 2:06 PM UTC
Through water and sand, stands you.
Spring breaking at you feet
Your breath flicking the pages of a street paper
A black crown of nightingales at your head
Entwined in leaves and wheat trickling down stones in dew-morning light and thrones in brambles of blackberry pie
Rooted to firewood and sheer bliss of kissed moonlight
Where herons christen Stars before black velvet blanket
Bridled by Rosemary and time, caught with Mary in a dark corner
Slumped behind priest less ivy, we permeate the air and through blue blooded command and gnashing of teeth, slants me
Outside the ramshackle cwtch I the hangmedown barks of woods, kneels you.
And stopped around cockles and foundling sparrows, sings the epitaph of a fallen barbarian.
Still through desert and carcass, lies you.
JWS
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 7:29 AM UTC
A broken clock demands no epitaph.
Forlorn gestured hands interrupted.
Just keeping its livelihood momentarily.
Not one person quite remembers
Since ticking unheard vanquishes worlds,
X yearning to be Z.
JWS
Apr 16, 2015
Apr 16, 2015 at 5:53 AM UTC
If one man counted the Stars in the sky,
until each one was named,
Our Star would have flittered and faded.
He has no one left to blame.
JWS
Apr 6, 2015
Apr 6, 2015 at 6:43 AM UTC
Farouche outline,
melting into the stool.
Slippery palms, flavoured beef and onion,
now it's 5 o'clock.
Hands turn.
Willing a pint to be half full, not half empty.
Slumped since 1978, timeless as the wallpaper.
Hands turn.
Mustard teeth to compliment his tongue.
Paralysed from his lifting elbow down.
Hands turn.
Jutting cigarette from blubber lips, burnt out.
Spitting in the ****** ritual, it's good luck.
Hands turn.
Lucky he's got time then,
Read behind bloodshot eyes.
Ice in the cider, it'll last longer than him.
Hands turn.
An echo, I think it's a bell.
You're out, he knows.
Hands turn.
Cold bites at the door, he huddles out.
A lighter lost, a bottle-top gained.
The wind taunts the black velvet sheet of white pin ******
Hands stop.
JWS
Mar 30, 2015
Mar 30, 2015 at 6:50 PM UTC
The light laughs and dances on his tongue.
A taste of summers gone and summers not prompt enough.
Beery boys in lunchtime queues, lightly roasted by an illusive sun.
The office boy, the lunch ladies, the cyclist zipped, bursting from his mac.
Here a moment, gone the next.
The schoolgirl in her dolly shoes, the old man in pause,
Mesmerized Labradors weave in and out of trees and anything.
“You’ve drop a pound, miss”, but the tunes of now, hum in her head.
A seagull glides, watching, unnoticed, unknowing.
The postman catches his reflection in the glass door, sighs.
On it’s axis, turning, the door spins and motivates, turning.
Tall crowds of too many, leaning ignorant over the homeless man.
“He just leaves in his own time” says the reception.
A bell, a call, then nothing.
All as empty as church, now that churches are empty.
While inside as drunk and ferocious as hammered church mice.
Sweaty, squeezed thighs melt into soft seats then, nothing.
Saturdays of singing, later shouting, “bread of heaven”,
Swearing to our god that London can hear us.
The same arguments, point after point, pint after pint.
Warm beer and the same conversation, it doesn’t get better.
But it doesn’t get worse.
JWS
Mar 23, 2015
Mar 23, 2015 at 11:40 AM UTC
You can tell when you're really lonely, because not even the moon will smile down on you.
Dec 18, 2014
Dec 18, 2014 at 1:26 PM UTC