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 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
although, incredible, the dogmatic pursuit of absent-mindedness, two left feet up the [redacted]

i would make a remark about how fast the time has gone
but i never looked up
to see it moving

wish upon a
wish upon a
wish upon a moribund eternally pessimistic star

[if i was a poem, dear disinterested reader, i think i would be a fridge poem. not very profound, nor eloquent, and rather insipid; though it's quite funny that i exist in the first place]

Me & Earl & The Dying Light Emblematic Of, Or Perhaps Symptomatic Of, My Interest In Whatever It Is You Have To Say

met a genie on a long road
delivered with the smoke of a cracked kitchen kettle
juggling three wishes
in his drunken monologue
like a blind man juggles bowling pins
and stupidly i used them all
on making the next few tomorrows disappear
                                                                                        and now i'm here
...

anyway how may i take your order?
i'm not entirely sure either
 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
palm reading
 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
a bag of sand
a dead man's hand
withered but alive on the fractured land

what's a hand to do
without the arm its due
or the muscle and the bone from which the hand took cue

hand wanders the plains
hoping somehand deigns
to interlock its fingers and alleviate his pains

hand curls into fist
weak without its wrist
shaking for the company which it has sorely missed

then fist unspools to wave
for across the sandy grave
another hand is looking for the warmth of hands they crave

one hand makes a sign
then fingers intertwine
if these hands keep holding their bruised knuckles shall be fine
ay girl lemme get ur digits
ha ha
 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
her:
her golden glowing radiant luscious locks of hair
her beaming blue eyes, crinkling at the sides
her heavy breathing, when we play
her warm embrace, at the end of the day

our quiet walks around the edge of the park
and we talk for hours, though she mostly listens
the way she moves so gracefully, she makes my heart aflutter
and sometimes i try to speak to her, but i can only s-s-stutter

she is so cute when she puts her head on my shoulder
she is so cute when she wants me to hold her
she is so cute; i cannot find a flaw
she is so cute, when she ***** on the floor...

                                                        ...my beautiful golden retriever pup
you must be a *******
 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
/ picked an iris from the garden / took a hacksaw to the petals / when i could have just picked them apart /

\ which garden? \ only one of its kind \ a blemish in the desert, a stubborn breakout of petulant colour \ under schrodinger's sun \ model's smiles so ugly betwixt the natural verdure \ i tell them this \ to save myself from perceived slights \ and she does, indeed, look slight \

/ the word "help" drawn in the sand / the rusting handle of the shovel burning hands / as i hack at stems swaying nonchalant / in the stinging wind /

\ from left \ to right / then left \ then right / before bleeding out on the flat palm of the tool -

\ a wren \ tar-black \ perches on a nearby tree \ shakes the dust off a wing \ and casts a shadow across our little oasis \ before opening its beak to song \ dragging more people into the dark will not help you find the light switch \ and other assorted platitudes \

/ so the model walks out into the desert / i follow / dragging her garden along / it's wrapped around my ankles / oh the irony in losing blood to the vines tightening / dragging across hot sand / and eventually it's all too heavy / so i collapse / breathing in the arid ground / skin turns as red as a bull's nightmare landscape / yet she continues to walk / as if nothing happened / is it the heat that leaves me melting away? / or the guilt? / in any case / i got caught in the trap i set for her / eyes close / and she is leaving...

                                                                ­                   leaving...


                                                    ­                                  leaving...
          
                                                                ­                                   left.
begrudging other people of their happiness will not make you any happier i think. bu t i am no philosopher
 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
during the midnight ***** fight
you went for a swim
and there on a whim
a thousand waterlogged psyches
jumped from the banks of the Forth
and flailed their limbs around with you.

"fully clothed, i'll float away"

you never got to see the horseshoe bend
tucked into the marshy green
like the buttoned shirt
of the river belt.
by the patchwork fields
making out a kind of thick quilt
you can see from the sky.
though it could never keep you warm.

"down the forth, into the sea"

even if they held the sun in their mouths
they'd still not have the means
to brighten your corner.
did you find peace
in the lashing, gnawing foam
under the Forth Road bridge?

"i think i'll save suicide for another day"

i guess that day was yesterday
where you lived the end
you wrote ten years ago:
1AM
a trail meandering
from the mouth of Dakota Hotel
to a finish line underwater.

"i'm away now, thanks."

...and then you left before we could return the gratitude.
the vocalist of frightened rabbit killed himself by jumping off a bridge. i am very sad about it. in the song "floating in the forth", released in 2008, he details the events that lead to his death. please seek help from the people around you if you feel suicidal or depressed.
 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
oh i do not care
i refu
se
to be
behol
den
to conve
ntion

disco ball of sinew and blood
fished out of little snack box (insomnia chronicles)

watch the workmen work
in their glitter suits
and steel-capped boots
resolutely and arrogantly un-You

disco ball of feeling and rhythm
crawling out of tv screen (little samara says hello)

little wastebasket of hope
floats torpidly down muddy rivers
carrying crumpled paper from the control room
to a pockmarked sky

disco ball of muscle and valve
boiling in a coffee cup (every week the same burn)

ode to the sky and its thinning hair
and the pothole where i was found
by my mother
on the most expensive day of the year

disco ball of not much at all
spinning 'round in an empty hall.
i have never been more focused
 May 2018 Claire
Jack P
-------------------------------As seen on Taste.com*-----------------------------

Ingredients:
One will need a portion of the following:
1) 50g of self-imposed isolation (optional: w/ drawn curtains)
2) a tablespoon of misguided misanthropy (store brand does the trick)
3) a propensity for experiencing negative stigma
4) ethyl alcohol enough to form parasitic relationship (approx: half bottle of grey goose)
5) 1kg of pervasive fear of the unknown (found in Future aisle amongst acquaintanceships, unwelcome hypotheticals)
6) a 3/4 cup of ground self-loathing  + the root
7) lettuce
8) tomato
9) cucumber
10) onions
11) avocado

Method:
Step one: place self-imposed isolation in a slow cooker along with misguided misanthropy. Cook on low for 8 HOURS. This will make LONELINESS.

Step two: preheat oven to 200C fan-forced. take loneliness from  slow-cooker then douse in alcohol before placing in oven. it's meant to burn (you're meant to burn.)

Step three: bring a *** to boil and throw negative stigma in to cook until it softens.

Step four: cut pervasive fear of the unknown into strips and braise.

Step five: plate pervasive fear and negative stigma. this combination is the foundation.

Step six: chop vegetables and mix into standard garden salad, then plate (one may plate how they wish, presentation -- to you, at least, matters not, or little; here's the one who wears tracksuit pants to parties. your parents have to remind you to brush your hair). garnish with self-loathing, decorate plate with the root of self-loathing.

Step seven: plate loneliness. truest to the recipe if loneliness is focal point of the plate. if it's cooked properly it will bleed. so will you -- just give it time.

Happy cooking!!
*not actually seen on taste.com. their recipes aren't as good.
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