Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
The morning after I killed him
we sat eating breakfast
at the kitchen counter.

The father, pupils
on the tabloid
which would later

leak with the news
of his youngest child's
departure.

The mother, upstairs,
applying the swish
of crimson,

a shade she'll
rename blood of son
before too long.

I won't go into specifics.
But it was simple, really.
The fingers first,

flaccid, then the arms
like sticks of broken chalk,
then the slump,

static, as if a switch
from on to off,
or a plug wrenched out.

Everything was normal.
You did not suspect.
I posted you

his glasses a week after,
wrote the note left-handed.
And yet

you did not suspect
but walked numbly,
shaking hands,

even the hand
of the man
who severed his breaths.
Written: March 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Not based on real events. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
I’ve got a buddy,
lives in Vinegar Hill.

   Was in the city for work
   so I called him,

waiting for the early morning
zip of caffeine,

   anything to coat my throat.
   He said absolutely.

Hadn’t been since they put
flowers on the corner,

   condensation of colour
   in a ribcage of streets.

The trees were *****
skinny things;

   I felt as bare and bland.
   The truth burnt, left a scar.

Still, I found love in a whirl
on a garage door,

   trickled out three syllables
   to a pretty blonde on a bike.

Window seat, $3.50 down.
Jack knew the waitress,

   her number too.
   Crimson cherries for earrings.

The sun licked us brighter.
Rotund pumpkins, manic eyes,

   toothless and forgotten.
   A beagle sneezed on the corner

of Jay and Plymouth.
Then a lazy detour down snaking Navy.

   A headline: Brooklyn needs jobs.
   Don’t we all, I muttered.

I could see a stars and stripes
with a rip through the middle,

   flapping as a mongrel’s tongue.
   I was thirty and single,

headaches and toast for breakfast,
coffee for blood.

   When I get to 9th, I said to Jack,
   I'll give Cherry a call.
Written: October 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time for a competition. It is not based on real events, but is set in Vinegar Hill, a real area of Brooklyn, New York City. 'Jay', 'Plymouth' and 'Navy' refer to street names nearby. 'Love in a whirl' can (or could) be found on Water St., while the title comes from a mural on Navy St. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
morning. again.
must be another
from your record collection
fluttering past the door,
over the bed,
butterflies of song.

breakfasts
in pyjamas,
crooked floorboard breaths,
butter-knife bark
against bread,
triple ***** of the spoon
inside of the cup,
steaming bronze.

make a home
against your body,
hair almost dry,
toe xylophone,
hearts on the sleeve,
freckles that pepper
the cheek
on which I plant a kiss,
my silent lyric
of love.
Written: March 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
This, clearly,
where we studied Geography.
World map swollen with filth,
peeling New Zealand.

Exercise book half-lollops
off from a desk,
the chair a resting skeleton,
a metal limb amputated.

For Science: smashed test-tubes,
lab coats like dead ghosts.
For Maths: decades-old equations
loitering on the walls.

Throw a basketball in the gym, miss,
its smack and echo gunshot rocket.
Punctured football,
globe past the best before date.

The library a cascade
of mottled tomes,
pages that ***** as twigs,
pens have cried into the carpet.

Write my name in a pond of dust.
Look who showed their face again
here, where something happened,
once.
Written: March 2019.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
apart

two segments
rolling down the hill

little rockets
spurting off heat

I'm cracked eggs
brittle eyeballs

creak in the neck
like a sodden floorboard

splash of blood
off again

blinded by meaningless
droplets of triviality

twist of stomach
tight knot

ice when I type
know it by heart
Written: February/,March 2019.
Explanation: A strange little poem written in my own time over the course of a few weeks. Not sure I will like this much in the future, but never mind. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
liquid silhouette
exposed toes
echoes that swim
through the room

apricot flame
candle burns
as do we
with each breath out

mist hush to windows
morning muscle crackle
stretch as roots
yawn into place

and with a flick
bend back
boomerang of the spine
arms like pillars

in a trance
birth of a wave
woman upended
moves her bones

chain of inhalations
human triskelion
little quivers
but steady soul

then retreat
from the shore
float away
flat again

a shuffle
before repeat
ready to go metronome
take off
Written: March 2018.
Explanation: A poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
this evening I drink the stars with you
never has the night tasted so delectable
as when our heartbeats sit side to side
when the music slumps
into an indistinct muffle
until we hear our own breaths

flicker of a twinkle in the distance
city populated with insecurities
lungs of smoke and veins of coffee
but you in your striped socks
me with my tea-stained jumper
just enough just enough
Written: February 2019.
Explanation: A so-so poem written in my own time. Feedback welcome. A link to my Facebook writing page can be found on my HP home page.
Next page