"boxer" poems
I feel like I am neurologically deficient
That a lot of my brain cells are missing
Like a punch drunk doped up punk boxer
A pimply muscle bound ***** on steroids
Hanging out at my old high school locker
No shocker that I am no medical doctor
But I always thought I’d be just a bit better
I guess on average I am a little bit smarter
But the bar is set so low that it requires
Very little to grow and go over it, you know
In comparison to the other young men
I may be grandstanding and one upping them
But when it comes to grand scheme of things
When compared to past people
Who shared my glorious dreams
Like Percy Shelley and John Keats
Like Ginsburg and the other Beats
I think I am drifting of course just a bit
Lest we all forget the **** cut the crap to fit in it
Maybe I’m okay few travel this way anyways
So who’s to say if I’m doing it the wrong or the right way
But I still feel like my brain needs a chemical treatment
A diet with more nutrients and sufficient Supplements
Because I’m feeling neurologically deficient
May 24, 2015
May 24, 2015 at 4:19 PM UTC
If you want a lover
I'll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I'll wear a mask for you
If you want a partner
Take my hand
Or if you want to strike me down in anger
Here I stand
I'm your man
If you want a boxer
I will step into the ring for you
And if you want a doctor
I'll examine every inch of you
If you want a driver
Climb inside
Or if you want to take me for a ride
You know you can
I'm your man
Ah, the moon's too bright
The chain's too tight
The beast won't go to sleep
I've been running through these promises to you
That I made and I could not keep
Ah but a man never got a woman back
Not by begging on his knees
Or I'd crawl to you baby
And I'd fall at your feet
And I'd howl at your beauty
Like a dog in heat
And I'd claw at your heart
And I'd tear at your sheet
I'd say please, please
I'm your man
And if you've got to sleep
A moment on the road
I will steer for you
And if you want to work the street alone
I'll disappear for you
If you want a father for your child
Or only want to walk with me a while
Across the sand
I'm your man
If you want a lover
I'll do anything you ask me to
And if you want another kind of love
I'll wear a mask for you
14.6k
porch talk, simmering in a Bud light sauce
everyone chair-rocking, even the boxer dog,
in his self-propelled 360 degree swiveling chair
eavesdropping and spy eyeballing the farm for
strangers and any creatures as of yet, unsmelled
get done with weather, the crops,
the neighbors,
the weird, and the truly neighborly,
grandkids escapades, hopes and desires, comparative literature and regional dialects and philosophical dialecticals tickling,
bs’ing and tall tale telling, breathing the windy geography of the air over the land that dictates the how we live,
open another Bud for the buds,
did I forget to mention
farm equipment?
skirt politics cause nobody wants any
nothing-to-be-done-damn-aggravation,
leaves nothing mo’ to ramble on about ‘cept the
absent women
no worries all above board no secrets uncouthed,
but the mood softens as the pale daylight wisps come rarer
as now
nearer to nine pm, obvious saved the best for last,
a very manly-way of ordering things,
big silent pauses in the converso conversation,
guy-sighs many,
as the last essay of the day is being jointly authored,
denotating the generalized listings of
how they drive us crazy,
listing the repetition of ever changing instructions,
which doesn't recognize bi-coastal mannerisms, non-differentiating
just humanism-isms
and the peculiarities of each (a list kept)
in a compare and contrast,
an end of the day summation,
and the boasting-outbesting,
of each of their
specialisms
which is sadly now forgotten and which haven’t been
brain-recorded so cannot be disclosed
other than it’s now ten
and all that’s left is
to sleep, perchance, to dream,
of private things
and bigger and better
John Deere tractors
Jun 9, 2018
Jun 9, 2018 at 2:13 PM UTC
Skyscrapers and mango trees wearing boxer briefs.
The tantalizing wind blows caressing paperclips and mortuary signs—
turning them indigo red for we all know that dead bodies are nothing but dead.
Hymns of love and soliloquies of the unconscious ego—
Id of our time but men of the past be our hero.
Leaving to wonder, if king Nebuchadnezzar was a crack-feign
would Coca Cola still educate penguins on the importance of Lesbian Existence?
For in this war of life, cockroaches are the real winners,
and the taste of excellence is only reserved for fire extinguishers —
so if nuclear clouds persist,
let the fire burn with love and you lay on the bed of oblivion
cuddling the moral that capitalism leads to schizophrenia.
So insure your sanity for free 99, this, with warm regards from yours truly,
Rhizome of Golgotha.
Nov 29, 2012
Nov 29, 2012 at 8:19 PM UTC
I am empty, yet I am whole
I burn with passion, desire, hot
Yet I am frozen to the core, cold.
My steps are surer than a Lions,
Yet insecurity ravages my mind like a bad disease.
My thoughts impulsive, extemporaneous
Yet cool, calm and calculated are my middle names.
Sometimes fear makes me weaker than a withering flower
But usually I'm bolder than a boxer, ducking, diving, bobbing, weaving
I can be loud, raucous, unbecoming
or quiet, shy and unwelcoming
I prefer my own space
But I'm your best friend
I can follow with the obedience of a dog
But I love setting trends.
I am an honest liar
A well read idiot
A losing champion
A logical creative
Beautifully ugly
Perfectly flawed
What I'm saying, is I'm human.
A walking contradiction
I'm an Oxymoron,
Yet I am not.
Jun 4, 2013
Jun 4, 2013 at 7:48 PM UTC
Excuse me, sir, your pants are on fire.
Yes, i am talking to you, sir.
This is quite a mess you have made,
you starry-eyed dreamer.
Not that it was perfect in the beginning.
Nothing is.
When my grandfather got old,
he made sure to dress well.
If he was to die on any
given day, he intended to
do it in his Sunday best.
My grandfather died in a
unisex hospital gown.
When i was growing up,
Mom always made sure
i wore clean underwear.
It would be shameful
to die in ***** ones.
Speaking of growing up,
i was raised on Reaganomics.
It doesn't matter which side of
the aisle you stand on these days,
because Reagan defeated communism
through the clever use of money.
When my grandmother was set to pass,
she faced the changing seasons with
poise and dignity. She was
ready to move on, to reunite with
loved ones lost.
My grandmother died in a
unisex hospital gown.
My best friend, Peter, didn't
put much stock in appearances.
He was funny and sarcastic.
We all loved him like a
brother. Peter's mom buried
him in brand new Ecko
gear. He died in boxer
shorts on the floor of a
ramshackle apartment
blue in the face from a
****** overdose.
Thank god none of these
people will ever need healthcare.
Mr. President, sir, i am no
Republican.
i am an American.
You do remember us, don't you?
How silly of me...of course you don't.
You were busy watching your legacy.
i would have watched it better, if
it had been my name
at risk.
My name is all i have.
When Bill Clinton was president,
he lied about getting a
*******
But we forgave him.
It was just a *******
It's not like it was our
privacy or healthcare at stake.
Or our economy.
Have you dreamed about any
of those things, sir?
Or just your legacy?
Who knows?
How well do we ever know anyone?
Christmas is right around
the corner, and i and
others have made you
a fine gift, a lovely suit.
It's invisible.
You probably won't notice.
No matter...
one day you will have to
remove your flaming pants.
To try on your new suit.
Or, god forbid, to put on a
unisex hospital gown.
And then you will finally
see your legacy.
Nov 6, 2013
Nov 6, 2013 at 7:01 PM UTC
My father died
from a gun shot wound
to the head
self-inflicted
Don't get all weird about it.
Fathers die
and their passing
though certain
is rarely easy.
So what can I say of this man
so many years
after his emphatic end?
I can say what Whitman said
of Lincoln:
"O Captain, my Captain.
Rise up and hear the bells."
But he will not.
He was ever-present
wise and alert
a boxer in life
a fighter in every way.
And I grew up with the gloves on
quick
elusive
and thanks to him
successful in every ring.
He died
******* on a lit tobacco stick
Emphysema was gonna
take him down
so he pulled his own trigger
saved his family that way
though that's a longer tale
Therefore
and whereas
this is a belated requiem
for a man I loved.
My Captain.
Dear and departed
these many years
may he rest in peace
as he never rested
in life.
Jun 13, 2016
Jun 13, 2016 at 2:54 AM UTC
I should have been a boxer....the way I stick and move when I write. The only person I know that can make the sun shine at night.
I should have been a boxer....the way i fight with words to paint a picture. I'm using the jab to set you up for the knockout blow. I'm looking for your tendencies and when i spot it......down you will go.
I should have been a boxer....float like a butterfly sting like a bee. A sign of honor to a fellow poet.....and inspiration to me.....Muhammad Ali. I should be a boxer the way i study my craft and observe the legends of the game. It's all all about the passion.....I could care less about fame.
I should have been a boxer.....you can't be good unless you train. I have my book ....my pen .....ideas in my brain. I have so many thoughts I may need another brain. I'm on the speed bag so my brain is quick with the flow....switching styles like a southpaw.....which way is it coming? I guess you will never know.
I should have been a boxer....because i really like to fight. Instead of gloves I utilize my pen to pulverize the paper and annihilate those foes and lost loves....father's who left their children at start. They couldn't finish the fight .....was he a coward or a scarecrow.....born without a heart.
I should've been a boxer.....because my defense is always up. I hide my poems inside a book .....it's highly guarded so don't try to look. The thoughts inside are g14 classified....so I'm hiring security guards.....if you want to gain entrance.....you must present an identification card.
I should've been a boxer....because I'm always fighting. My thoughts are knocked to the paper and bleeds black or red. I write about life .....because I know nothing about being dead. Although, I been knocked around .....and have had to take a standing eight.....I leaned on the ropes and learned to wait. Still working the jab......which are the words i write.
I should've been a boxer.....one hitter quitter and then it's time to say "Goodnight!"
Ladies and Gentlemen......we have a unanimous decision. The new poetic champion of the worldddddd!!! ......I should've been a boxer.....Yeah right.
Oct 12, 2012
Oct 12, 2012 at 5:36 AM UTC
Like a boxer
I’m on the ground.
But I’m getting up
to finish it.
Mar 8, 2011
Mar 8, 2011 at 8:02 PM UTC
Tired and tied tight
To the unyielding plough,
I scream myself hoarse
Into the silent field
Of endless toil.
Knee deep in the sludge,
Shackled and blind,
A waning force
Too stubborn to yield,
Too proud to kneel.
At the last pull I fall,
Too weak to climb up.
My health they endorse,
Their intentions concealed,
"Come back when you're healed."
The carriage arrives
To take me away.
The knacker's draught horse
Bought from the field,
Naught but bone meal.
Mar 4, 2015
Mar 4, 2015 at 2:53 PM UTC
Memorized by a vacant lot. At the edge of an abyss. Darkness is solitude. Solitude for a crowded my mind. There is no break for a mind. Constantly crunching away at what is reality. The concept of nothingness makes the mind clock overtime. Are we creatures of logical limitless. Or finite beings who cant grasp that nothing is infinite. We are here to observe. To learn. To yearn. In search of a purpose. In search of anything that keeps us from thinking we are worthless. We are creators. We are makers. We are breakers. We are fakers. We are individuals. We are imitators. I am you and you are me. One in the same. On an even plane.. on a round earth. We are haters. We are lovers. We are creatures of similarity. We are creatures of contrast. Idiosyncratic nuances that make us a so far apart but so alike. The performer with a mic. The crazy man on a soap box. The angry in jail. The stoners in a hotbox. The gated community members. And the thieves breaking pad locks. The rich and the poor. The nun and the ***** The killer and the doctor. The lover and the boxer. All so far apart yet always united with a common theme. One in the same. He is her and she is him. Cell by cell. Limb by limb. United until every atom that we were connected through is torn away into nothingness. Vacant lots at the edge of an abyss.
Dec 29, 2013
Dec 29, 2013 at 3:16 AM UTC
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There are no crowds to cheer him on.
There are no opportunities to pass him by.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
His head is bowed, no longer strong.
His heart no longer knows what's right.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
He can't remember for how long.
He can't remember what it felt like
to live
carry on
to be strong
to fight.
The Boxer stands alone tonight.
There is no one here to hear him cry,
alone in the ring, as baroque music flies
through the air; through his soul,
and at last lets him sleep.
There is not a soul left there that cares to cheer him on;
When he passes, there is no one left that deigns to weep.
Mar 17, 2015
Mar 17, 2015 at 10:27 PM UTC
Cancer isn’t catchy so
I can ride in cabs and
Work for a
While longer
Try not to
Resent the
Unaffected
Cancer isn’t catchy so
I can hold our
Daughter and
hug her when
She cries
And borrow her Teddy
When I need him
Cancer isn’t catchy so
You can stand
By my side
Eat with me
And let me
Wear your shirts
And boxer shorts
Cancer isn’t catchy so
You can kiss me
All the time
Lay next to me
And dry my eyes
When all this pain
Is just too much
Cancer caught me so
I’ll have to
Leave you soon
I want your face
And hers
To be the last things
I ever see
Jul 18, 2010
Jul 18, 2010 at 11:35 AM UTC
The Boxer stands in the ring,
A man who used to be King.
Across stands The Young Lion,
A man who will be a King.
The Boxer shakes his aged head,
A man who had fists of lead.
Across scoffs The Young Lion,
A man who has fists of lead.
The Boxer sighs, his last fight,
A man who has lost his light.
Across strides The Young Lion,
A man who gleams with light.
The bell rings, and the fight begins.
The Boxer strikes, though he won’t win.
The Lion roars, winning in ten.
The Boxer slumps to the floor,
A man who can take no more.
Above smiles The Young Lion,
A man who only wants more.
The Boxer smirks as he lay,
A man who knows the way.
Above stands The Young Lion,
A man who knows not the way.
The Boxer leaves, knowing this one thing.
There is always a new and waiting King.
Jul 3, 2016
Jul 3, 2016 at 2:11 AM UTC
i love you when we're alone
because you eviscerate me in front of your friends
but alone you kiss the veins in my arms
press your small hips into my hips & sigh into my neck
& blink so slowly that i can hear your eyelids whispering
you won't hold my hand in public
because you blatantly want to seem available to other men
but when it's only you & it's only me
we lie on our backs letting the summer rain collect in puddles
in our bellybuttons & you swear to god
there's only one way this can end
you say i can't meet your parents
but everything i do reminds you of your father
that tall strong man of your childhood
singing sinatra to your mother in the kitchen
just like i do when i sneak behind you &
tickle your neck with my tongue you're
giggling as i carry you like a bride
into your bedroom for naptime or playtime
you only miss me when you're by yourself
like a flower hidden in a fenced-in backyard
but you ignore my texts most days
because when your friends are around you're busy
dancing toward the sun & lying to them
about where you spent last night &
the blueberry pancakes you ate for breakfast
you don't mention the ticklish new rib spot i found
or the quiet music we make together at night
or the stars we wished on with our pinky fingers tied together
i love you most when we're sticky asleep alone
you humming in turquoise ******* snuggled into my armpit
with your warm hand melting into my chest
& me in the pinstripe boxer briefs you bought with
my arm under and reaching for your exposed breast
Jun 28, 2015
Jun 28, 2015 at 8:38 AM UTC
Do you really
Blowing smoke into my face
In my pocket a razor blade
I run my finger against it
Pick anything
Anything you want
Cough Syrup
Cigarettes
Liquor
As if you weren't white trash enough
Walk in
You are calm and no one cares
Pick anything
Anything and walk out
You own it
Some lie to themselves
Pseudophilisophical teenage masturbations
As if shoving a couple cold beers into your boxer shorts
And downing a bottle of robo in the toy section of wal-mart
*yeah bro, youv'e totally thrown a wrench into the gears of the corporate machine while we drink these cold cans of beer that were pressed against your *****
Marijuana
I wish I was alive for once
Then I wouldn't waste my time typing poems on my cellphone
While you finger your girlfriend on the couch
Sleeping on the floor is great for a while
You appreciate a safe place to sleep
Something different than the bus seats and train stations
I wish the universe didn't
Whose idea was this whole life thing anyway
Tomorrow you will wake up
And stealing DVDs from Best Buy will consume the day
I found a little bag of ****
And we are kings
Of a personnel universe
Your girlfriend
Is
eighteen
She still thinks I'm cool
Cause my General Education Diploma
I hate everything in my life
It's all breaking apart
The seams I have carefully sewn
I need to get out of here
I am tired of January
Appreciate each moment
Appreciate each moment
Because the tumor on my brain waits on nobody
I cant overcome the sense of meaninglessness
It's just the comedown
Xanax
Cigarettes 1:12 a.m
1:13 a.m
Follow my noble eightfold path to oblivion
#1 go **** yourself
Jan 5, 2013
Jan 5, 2013 at 1:19 AM UTC
I never knew his real name and my youthful imagination named him uncle funky the peanut man as bagged peanuts burnt were hopefully sold from a makeshift stand now on this June 2013 morning my mind slowly opens the door of youthful memory and I see soiled pants turned over shoes old hat crooked atop long gray hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the untended skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiffs released randomly would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days and I wonder and it is"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky?
ut to be sold hopefully from a makeshift stand now on this june 2013 morning my mind opens the door of youthful memory and I see clearly soiled pants and shirt old hat atop of unseen hair brown hands waiting for a dollar exchange as funk clings to the unbathed skin like fleas on a homeless dog whiff released would stagger a prime boxer the times changed with the town sweeping uncle funky away with yesterday and the past of bygone days but I wonder and it isn"t a very pleasant wonder whatever happened to uncle funky the peanut man?
Jun 15, 2013
Jun 15, 2013 at 4:23 PM UTC
Grandma had a clever dog;
She raised him from a pup.
And when he learned that he could talk
You couldn't shut him up.
His tail was just a nubbin
And he had a flattened mug.
He looked like a short boxer
So grandma named him pug.
Grandma told us what he looked like
For we never saw the cuss.
Her walking, talking, Pug Dog
Was invisible to us.
She said he'd always been around,
As far as she recalled.
Her mother told Pug stories
Before grandma even crawled.
Every family has traditions
And I guess I'd have to say,
Pug tales have been our custom
Right down to this very day.
When grandma gives a long deep sigh
And says, "Now, one day Pug. . ."
We know a story's coming
So we sit down on the rug.
We nestle up beside her
For a tale we've never heard.
And everyone gets quiet
So that we won't miss a word.
The stories grandma tells us
Of the things that dog can do
Can hold any child's attention,
Even fill a book or two.
Grandma's Pug tales outdo Rin-Tin-Tin
And even Scooby-Doo.
He's a smarter dog than Snoopy;
Smarter than Lassie too.
Pug has traveled far, to distant lands,
And even outer space.
He's done every thing there is to do
And he's been every place.
He always gets in trouble
For there's nothing he won't try.
He has traveled in a sub-marine,
Flown airplanes in the sky.
He has even been arrested,
More than once broke out of Jail.
But the family loves him dearly
And we always pay his bail.
Where grandma gets her stories from
I guess I'll never know.
But even down through all these years
Her Pug tales grow and grow.
I know someday when grandma sleeps,
And her life on earth is gone,
The Angels all will gather
To hear Pug tales all day long
Sep 24, 2010
Sep 24, 2010 at 4:49 PM UTC
iPad Love
4:49 AM, and by the light of the silvery moon
and our iPad screens turned down low,
we snuggle side by side, our fingers glide so softly upon each,
each of our own devices, this technique,
it could be an app, teaching how to caress a human being.
No need to tell you in sound, out loud,
how you turn my heart upside down,
I'll just post a note of appreciation on Facebook,
you will see it faster, and besides, you got your earphones on and
could not hear my sweet nothings if I screamed them in high definition.
The newspaper arrives on the electric "doorstep" -
no longer will do we venture outside in
pink bathrobes and curlers, or boxer shorts,
a legal gesture of neighborly disdain.
Americana, losing another icon, as well as
insuring the unemployment of thousands of newspaper deliverers,
boys and girls, on bicycles, their first job, now obsolescent.
Your feet, so cozy and warm, touching mine,
the sensation, lovely and fine, duly recorded in a poem
that on my iPad I scribble, as my typos disappear, out of sight.
your ear, I nibble, something you hate and I love,
but electronically, it's done with no fuss or muss, and
I don't even have to move!
Sadly, I can find no app that will bring the warmth
of a cup of coffee to my night table, and the gun metal casing of
this invention is chilly, but still Steve, with almost God like vision,
you brought us closer in ways prior unimagined.
So baby,
shut it down,
turn me on,
make me warm for real,
glide your now practiced fingertips on my grizzled cheek,
whisper a phony "ugh,"
cause I know, you will read
this iPad love poem
and cherish us for evermore.
Nothing, something, even as thin as my iPad 2(!)
will come between us and the holiness, the uniqueness of
the human touch.
2011
May 27, 2013
May 27, 2013 at 4:30 PM UTC
---
what is it makes a person
great in this sad world?
where there's such mediocrety
it is a precious pearl
is it that they have money?
that they have accrued
a trillion dollar bank account?
does this make a person good?
perhaps they have a famous face
or well regarded name
maybe they play basketball
and have a winning team
is it artistic talent?
was Vincent van Gogh lauded?
in his painful lifetime
was this man applauded?
perhaps they are as Edison
and have a brilliant mind
but Edison used Tessla
to him he was unkind
this is what I think
makes a man or woman great
that they give life their ALL
that they do not faint
if you sweep the street
and make it clean and bright
If you are an educator
and bring poor children light
if you are a poet
on a humble poetry site
it is forgiving others
not having to be right!
if you are a boxer
and don't give up the fight
this is what is greatness
it's not playing a part
it is *truly living
with your entire HEART.*
soulsurvivor
(C) 8/31/2015
Aug 31, 2015
Aug 31, 2015 at 11:32 AM UTC
He who says escapism cannot solve your problems
has never been a cinephile with depression
who can sit and watch The West Wing in his pants.
Oct 22, 2015
Oct 22, 2015 at 8:34 PM UTC
Two forces collide
Right
Left
Left Again.
Gloved fists beat into bone and blood
The stone will never move
The ox will make the stone move
Left hook
Right hook
two jabs.
The ox beats the stone
The ox hammers the stone
The ox hurts the stone’s feelings
Uppercut
Right
Right Again
Left.
The stone cracks
The ox breaks its horn
Jab
Jab
Right hook.
The Boxer’s ribs are cracked
The Boxer’s ribs are broken
Left cross
Right cross
Uppercut.
Fist connects to skull
The Boxer’s world is black
Then its white
Now its back to normal
Two jabs
Left
Left Again.
The Boxer’s world is the ring
The world begins at one post and ends at another
Left
Right
Right Again
Left
Left Again.
One eye is swollen shut
The other blinded by blood
Jab
Jab
Left hook
Right cross
Uppercut.
The blood clears away
Now the Boxer’s world is the ceiling
And the lights
Both real and imagined.
The world goes black
Then white.
Oct 8, 2014
Oct 8, 2014 at 3:59 PM UTC
See that little match-stick,
see that candle there?
See that hard-worn photograph
taken for a year?
Take them punches, boxer-girl!
Much to your chagrin,
it comes back in equal part -
hard and deep within.
Consider bonds between us heat.
And fuel, the time we spent
sleeping close in tousled sheets -
a sky towards us, bent:
gray and cloudless, quick and fleet.
Candle-flame is meant.
to take those memories, and to eat
the message that you sent.
Photo attachment 1: You, him - bottle of Cointreau. Bite marks on your thigh like only I should have left! Grass (both types), a camera. Wrestling. ****** ***
Photo attachment 2: You, him: carousels, cloven-footed balloon-man (whistling high and wee). Hot dogs. Ocean. Wrestling. ****** ***
Photo attachment 3: There was something about a penguin… and there was cake involved. Polarbears - must have been a zoo. Causing me to mope at the keyboard: wrestling, ****** ***
Photo attachment 4: It’s really just *** now.
Photo attachment 5: Please stop.
Shouldn’t be so callous:
that password is personal.
I shouldn’t really have it,
Well, this is what I get for exploring the caverns of iniquity
(that’s slang for your hard-drive),
***** little …
I can’t … cuss you out.
All photographs marked 10/18/07 for devastation.
Now, this thing has ended:
sad, though brief and gleeful.
We were consumed by happiness, never sorrowful
and nothing meaningful;
everything beautiful, nothing painful.
Princess, that work was masterful -
breaking that, making great things hurtful.
But worse still?
I can’t hate you.
Mar 5, 2010
Mar 5, 2010 at 11:29 AM UTC
You make me feel pretty,
delicate as fairies, a bit cheekier than usual
in an old faded grey -stretched by the tumbles of the washing machine and dulled by the sunshine- t-shirt and old boxer shorts.
Feb 28, 2015
Feb 28, 2015 at 7:04 AM UTC
Where Gloria lies
Lydia once lay
Gloria's boyfriend
sleeps beside her
(Gloria)
& Lydia having to sleep
in the cot bed
feels the aches and pains
in a bed too small
and sits moodily
on the red tiled
front door step
gazing at the Square
chin in her small hands
pouting lips
the baker with his
horse drawn cart
goes by
the man with his boxer dog
walks on by
waves as he
is wont to do
his dog sniffing
the ground
her father's voice
sounding from indoors
her mother's voice
bellowing above his
Benny rides along
on his imaginary horse
& rides over to her
sitting there
what's up?
he asks
fed up
she replies
staring at him
my big sister
& her boyfriend
still have my bed
& I'm stuck in
the cot bed &
I ache & feel angry
& I could spit
I see
Benny says
getting off
his pretend horse
anything I can do
to help?
only if you kidnap
her boyfriend
& send him off
some place
Lydia says
what you doing
anyway?
she asks
standing up
& rubbing her behind
which had become
pins& needlely
I was going to ride
my blue scooter
but you can come
& we can share it
along & down
Rockingham Street
he says
she looks at him
& says
ok if I can
have a ride
even if it is blue
or
he says
I can ask my sister
if you can borrow
her red one
will she let me?
Lydia asks
sure to if I ask
nicely & promise
her some sweets
he says
ok
Lydia says
let's go then
so they walked up
to the flat where
Benny lives with his
parents & sister
& brother
& he asks his sister
who says yes
& so Benny & Lydia
ride off across
the Square
on the two scooters
& Benny has
(for safety against
bad cowboys)
his two 6 gun
shooters.
Jul 29, 2015
Jul 29, 2015 at 3:16 PM UTC