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Charles Smith Aug 2018
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 ***-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.
Charles Smith Aug 2016
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.

Charles Smith Dec 2015
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!"

  Apr 2015 Charles Smith
Olivia Kent
Wearing beauty of piercing blue.
Mingled with green.
From the corner of the eye appeared new life.
Into the arms of the new mother.
The protective all consumed arms of the new father.
Born early, a diminutive child.
All things bright and beautiful, a beautiful hymn.
A poem for you, for a beautiful him.
(c) Livvi
My son presented me with my fifth grandson last Sunday.
He is wonderful...just like the others,he is so cute.
He was only about 10 days early, but he was fine ...6lbs 5 ozs x
The clouds are pregnant
With rain water

Earth waited with

Alas! It's abortion
Blood all over the sky

Sun's blazing
It's been two years since we have proper rains
  Apr 2015 Charles Smith
Jason Cole
her summery eyes

set me adrift

on hopeful waters

where i sail

under clearer skies

content in my place and time

and untroubled by a destination
  Apr 2015 Charles Smith
Arpan Rathod
“One day this pain will go,
Let’s move on and not let it grow,

You are special, you are brave,
Not anyone’s slave,

Don’t seek for revenge,
Of course, your life will change,
Don’t act too strange,


One day this pain will go,
Just Move On, and not let it grow.”

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