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Kick, such a great word
Kick the habit, kicked when you're down
Kick off, a row, a game, a foetus.
Kick back and relax, chill.
Then there's the rhymes for kick,
quick, thick, pick, slick, *****.
*****, your conscience, ***** your finger,
watch the bloom of blood appear,
lick the pricked finger, kick against the rules.
Long time kicking up daisies, so
Chick, you need steel toe cap boots in this world,
or when you finally kick the bucket,
all they'll remember is you as a lunatic*.
© JLB
26/06/2014
Cigarette smoke curls upwards,
spiralling into the ether and downwards into my lungs.
I sit looking at the cigarette packet
reading the warning:
Smoking seriously harms you and others around you
How true.
Except, it isn't the cigarettes that have harmed me, it's your lies.
Did you think you'd be able to keep me in the dark?
Did you think me that stupid?
Tut tut, lending me your car, not emptying the ashtray,
didn't think you wore lipstick whilst driving, just sunglasses.
The colour wasn't mine, too brash.
I take the last drag, watch the tip flame orange, and feel the nicotine calm
I pick the Marlboro's up flip the box over, and smile at the irony,
there in bold reads Choose freedom, we'll help you
if I rang the free phone number will they help me dispose of your body?
Your staining my kitchen floor, the nicotine is staining my fingers.
© JLB
25/06/2014
Now, today has been a **** day in every single way.
Today was the start of my holiday in Spain, until French strikes,
caused me pain. We were not flying.
Now, I did not weep, wail or flail my skin, instead, I said c'est la vie.
They are so very French.
Reminded myself that the French are cheese eating surrender monkeys,
awful at football (soccer) dreadful at tennis, middling in rugby,
and tend to suffer delusions of grandeur (**** a French word!)
They lost at Agincourt, Waterloo, WW2, think snails are a delicacy,and  allowed Mr. ****** in to rub their bellies.
But, I am H.A.P.P.Y.
Home
Alive
Prompt
Proud
Y?
Because­ I'm eating strawberries and cream, whilst watching Wimbledon.
How very British!
© JLB
24/06/2014
Have you ever felt alone in a crowd?
Have you ever wanted it to be quiet, when it's loud?
Have you ever felt a stare, only to find no-one there?
Have you ever wanted to find out that the truth is a lie?
Have you ever wanted just to die?
Have you ever wanted to disappear never to return?
Have you ever felt a person's concern?
Have you ever felt the need to confirm your worth?
Have you ever felt circumstantial?
Excess to requirement?
Devoid of refinement?
At times this need within gets loose,
its box devoid of empathy and feeling
it leaves you reeling, freewheeling into nothing but oblivion*.
© JLB
23/06/2014
H.P. Lovecraft's most famous quotes about the horror genre is that: "The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown."

And I will show you something different from either
Your shadow at morning striding behind you
Or your shadow at evening rising to meet you;
I will show you fear in a handful of dust.
The Waste Land, T.S.Eliot I. The Burial of the Dead


As a child I was never fearful.
Not of the dark, spiders or ghosts.
In fact I was wilful.
Hard hearted, cold.
I liked that about me, it was a barrier to the outside world.
I was the loner, the malcontent, the strange spooky one.
I loved it more as a teen, embraced the Gothic, elevated the bizarre.
I smoked, it was cool, I drank, it was cool, I was nihilistic, it was cool.
Popular meant conforming, how that repulsed me.
Why? Because conformity meant no individuality, no soul.
My Grandmother said once "be careful what you read, it becomes you"
Yeah right, look I'm Pennywise the clown!
But she was right in a way.
I became repulsed by myself.
I had no compassion.
No true love to call my own.
I was alone with my fear, my fear of loneliness. Irony.
I had no true identity, I hid in horror, then became horrified.
I didn't know what was coming, where I was going, who I was.
I was afraid. Truly afraid for the first time.
Afraid of my shadow, of not knowing, of returning to the grave.
Fear is a loathsome creature, devouring love and hope.
Yet, know this, we are born to die, the clock runs down, no appeals.
So fill up on love, fill up on warmth, for Hell maybe hot, but alone,
it's cold*.
© JLB
23/06/2014
Literary historian J. A. Cuddon has defined the horror story as "a piece of fiction in prose of variable length... which shocks or even frightens the reader, or perhaps induces a feeling of repulsion or loathing."
You are an old habit
clinging to me,
like a child clings to a comfort blanket.
To elaborate, I need to cut the apron strings.
Discard you like a cigarette ****,
another old habit.
We've marred and scarred each other and called it:
Love.
We are nothing more than substance abuse,
for each other.
Habit formed, co dependent adults.
No twelve step program for us.
Just your charred remains, found
in our bed.
Our bed that justified our habit.
© JLB
20/06/2014
Watching the day pass
Waiting for the night to come
Wanting the anonymity of dark
Wishing that the day wasn't so bright

No place to hide in the light
Sparkling sun reveals all
Reveals truth and lies
Stargazing is what I want, what I need

Watching the people of the day
Going about their daytime duties
Leaves me cold. They're just consumer cattle.
At night the watching differs.

Night watching is quiet
Night people are quiet
Night duties are quiet
Night is peace, night is my quietude.

Lie back, look up, see the stars all burnt out.
Degenerate matter. They are dead.
What we see in the night sky is death.
Bright death.
© JLB
19/06/2014
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