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the first girl who ever kissed my neck
had bones in her bedroom.
like taxidermy, right? i asked,
squeezing her hand,
my thumb rubbing hers, innocently.
the early days are always beautiful,
mind.

could i offer you some jam?
the fruits of my labour, i said
as she dipped the knife into my open wounds
smiling wide, ‘i did this for you’
and i said it so proudly, at the time.

i prettied myself up with doilies,
a gingham tablecloth too,
covering the unsightly parts of me.
only for her to give me that look,
that disappointed, never good enough

look.
its pithy. there’s too much substance.
and she spat it back into my face,
the red creating a clown-smile
the only smile i could muster, at the time.

and then she started to scream,
and that’s where my memories lapse.
hacking sounds, bones snapping.
it happened kind of quickly.
severed heads, severed hands,

what does it matter?
if your lover is thirsty, let them drink.
it’s simpler that way,
it keeps lovers as lovers, the naïve part of me said,
like a mantra, over and over.

deep inside, where my strength lay
(and i wouldn’t usually tell people this
but as you may have guessed,
mere air particles don’t have much to lose)
i wanted to scream, fight back

give me that back, that’s not yours to take
but the words are lost,
her slickened hands over my mouth
drowning out the nose,
as she runs away.

******* coward. leech. parasite.
i want my body back, i wheezed
as the final breathe escaped my chest.
Remember kids, ****** is never the answer. ****** is, of course, the question. And the answer is yes.

Remember kids, if you ever stab someone, punch them where you're gonna stab. They'll think you punched really hard, they won't realised you stabbed them.
A "poem" every day.
Michael Sep 2018
Yes I know my sense of humour is dark,
But if you didn’t want to know then you should not have asked.
Yes it offends, that’s the aim of the game.
But it’s all in jest, done in humours name.

No you don’t like it, but why should I care?
If you don’t like me or my humour then stay over there.
Because when you whine about it I will fail to care.
When you complain about it you will get aired.

I don’t involve myself in your pathetic goings on,
Never at all, not even once.
So stay out of my life and mind your own for once.
I’ll never be interested in your life, so leave it you ponce.

You’re a fully grown man, that I can see.
But a pathetic little boy you will always be.
You want to give your opinion but really there’s no need,
We’d get more useful info from talking to a tree.

Your mind is tiny but your voice is loud.
You have nothing to say but you say it so proud.
I don’t care what you think and I never will,
So stop flapping your gums and keep them still.

Call whomever you like and feel you need,
Bring your army to little old me.
I will politely ask you all to leave,
And when you don’t I’ll call the police.
People have been getting a little bit upset with my dark sense of humour. Pretty sure they are jealous because they have no sense of humour.
Mark Armstrong Jun 2018
Mother Nature is a nihilist sitting with friends
Around a poker table in the dew drop inn
Playing Nasty Canasta and the loser draws a limb
On a voodoo hangman, the cut of her kin

The high-wire committee say she’s way out of line
So they’ve sent in a crack-team of their most earnest faces
To blow 40 shades of blue, red and lime
From the very corridors our Mother paces

She croaks through the smoke “the first sons a novelty
The rest are just relics of muscles unclenched
Too smart for their own good and that doesn’t bother-me
But the reaper is hungry and hustling for rent”

Lackeys line the lawn, flunkies on fleek
To cover the crack of her chunky cheeks
“To stake lives may well seem immoral and bleak
But to play for cash prize seems horribly cheap
For a Lady of her esteem”

But the crowd spoke, she hung up the wardens trunchbull
Left the skeleton key within reach of the cells
“They’ve aired their opinions and I’ve had a ****-full
Let the hungry ******* impeach themselves
I’m sitting this one out”

“And I’ll  hide, while my dead snake wriggle persists,
On Elba with hairy pits, freckled wrists,
Openly practicing romanticists
And other hapless things that can’t exist
In these times”

Every second Sunday, the search resumes-led
By a dawn-chorus of confetti festooned-plebs
She can dance the devils limbo cos she’ll not be presumed-dead
While we’ve Holy Grail Package Holi-vows to renew-said
The green eyed usher on the door

The newsstand screams “Mother Nature was a fascist
Sher natural selection was the **** manifesto”
And they’re pedalling placebo to the shell-shocked masses
While the editor shoehorns a scotch into his amaretto

Yeah the world has been orphaned and the orphans smothered
But go easy on her sordid soul cos that’s  our mother, after all
Not to be read as any kind of statement but as a batshit bedtime story for overgrown kids
Death-throws Mar 2016
An angel saw my ****
And told me god would forgive
And so i told the angel
If god could forgive me,
I would have wished to never live
I mean come on, my search history is bad
Lauren Bennett May 2015
The other night you made me a cup of tea.
We bickered because I stole your chocolate. I was always stealing your chocolate. Chocolate is my fave, and I'd find it and eat it however well you thought you'd hid it.
But as we drank our tea, I couldn't shake the feeling that something was not right.
And then I looked at you, and realised what was wrong.

You had died.
I held your hand as you took your last breath...

And yet here we were, drinking tea, and bickering over chocolate.
It was a mistake you told me.
You hadn't died!
You woke up in the morgue, and had only just found your way home.
"*******" I thought.
Who on earth did we hold the funeral for?
You laughed as I worried about the mix up.
"This is serious!" I said.
But you kept on ****** laughing.
Always did have a dark sense of humour you.
My tea went cold as I wondered how I was going to tell everyone you were alive.
Then I opened my eyes.
Tears stung them to life.
And then I realised that you were gone.
Relieved I didn't have to tell people of the awful mistake.
I was happy.
Happy you visited.
Happy you know where to find me...
Alex Hoffman Apr 2015
Our grandmother sat in the corner, an irish-plaid towel hung over her legs, in a wheel chair, drinking two litre bottles of apple juice and orange juice, the little droplets hanging off her chin, her head tilted back. She said as a little girl, she would always try to get as much vitamin c as possible if she felt herself getting sick. Now she just drowned herself in the stuff. We kept telling her orange juice is not a viable cure for cancer, so she started drinking apple juice too.

She got diagnosed with cancer a few days after our grandfather died. They say couples always pass within a few months of each other. My grandmother hated my grandfather, so her vigorous orange and apple juice guzzling was really an ambition of divorcing his name from her in death; she didn’t care whether she passed or kept on living another hundred years, so long as no one associated her death with his.

As I left I locked up, remembering to leave my key in the door for Rooty (whenever he got home). We could only afford one key, and couldn’t afford a doormat to leave it under.

I told grandma if she just went two days without buying lotto tickets, we could get another key. She says it’s just her luck that one of those days would be the day her ticket goes to someone else. I didn’t see it mattered, she was gonna die any day now anyway. She wants to win so bad I often think if she did win, she’d die right there on the spot, her life’s greatest ambition crossed off the last line of her to-do list, and being too dead to claim it would be forced to forfeit the prize leaving us here alone with one key, a cellar full of juice and still no doormat.
Short story

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