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RH 78 Feb 2019
Upon a bed of newspapers lay a creased red cotton shirt.
No fixed abode
Dirt appears on dirt
Grind teeth.
Got any change said man with can in hand.
Card and blanket with dog curled underneath.
Comatosed body rigid from a fix.
Brandished **** and theif.
Patchwork multicoloured polyester tents adorn a high end shop.
The homeless issue continues to worsen in London. I can’t remember seeing it so bad.
J Aug 2014
I will not write about you.
I will not write about how you send me to
Places I have not been to in quite a while
With words that revive the comatosed
Butterflies in my stomach

Nor will I write about how your hand behind
My back sends goosebumps to my heart
Up and down like strumming guitar strings
A song I would not want to end

I will not write about how you caress my thigh
Making me wish the hands of time would stop
For a moment, so that yours would still be on me

How your chin is like a puzzle piece
That finds its way perfectly upon my
Shoulder as we ride up the escalator

I will not mention how many times I have wished it
Was not "you and me", but "us"

No, I will not write about all of that.
I will not write about you.
I will never write about you.
k e i Jun 2017
stone's throw and the water's current, clouds shifting in the valley of the sky above
screams could be heard near
no,
it was more of a giddy falsetto, shouts that sounded too drunk,
it was an all too familiar sound for james an all too familiar person

"look at my wings! im a fairy! im coming home to the beloved land! wait for me fairy sisters!"

he went to the clear to see if he was hallucinating he wasn't
it really was her;
sophia
nine months since they broke up; that tearful separation

for a minute he just stood there at the far end of the river watching his ex girl friend spread her arms and glide near the banks in the bridge chanting and giggling

god, did he miss her voice and her laugh

she was just like how he remembered her, her timeless free spirited soul still intact as if she took her childhood with her as she grew up, clenched tightly in her fists

the moonlight kissed her milky pale skin, bathing it in a dusty sort of blue.
she was all by herself and he could tell that something was off;
like she was only half there, like her soul vacated her vessel and she was talking to someone not there

she seemed disoriented and james wondered if she was getting bad again,

the worry kicking in as soon as he thought about all those nights,
those times they got high and drank too much and drugged themselves, injecting poison they craved into their veins, letting cigarette ashes fall to their feet, tiptoeing about as if by a marionette's force trailing along the synchronized beating of their hearts
his mind and being time travelling, to the motel room they stayed at that summer bursting with heated afternoons and passionate air, the sheets that smelled of their love making, the wooden floor they sat on as he strummed the strings of his beloved guitar, singing to his muse, the balcony where they laid in each other's arms, in awe of the world around, cicadas chirping
their adventures and misadventures where she pretended to be a superhero and had him as her sidekick the times they pretended to be spies on quest and missions-she introduced and dragged him into her colorful magical realm.
she had dog eared, coffee stained colored books piled in the trunk of her car with words and sentences blacked out, renewed into greater poetry. he could've put a bookmark between pages of one of those books, and they could've dived right into it, staying in a chasm of a sappy, lovesick, sensual poem. they could've gone on a quest of slaying monsters and stopping time for eternity. he couldve stopped them from drowning

they were looking for heaven not knowing that heaven is not a places on earth

all he did was pull down the anchor and let her sink as he kept afloat. sure their connection was real and pure. they comfortably had both of their minds and spirits bare around each other they were two kites flying in a parallel motion but the wind dragged them down hurling them recklessly

they were rarely under substances, almost never under the influence of vices. it filled them up like birthday balloons and their love was the needle that caused them to pop. it had reached the point where they were trapped in a psychedelic haze holding on to each other to stay lucid

the drugs took their toll on them resulting to violence, abusive fights
he loved her so much that he built her a house of bricks and cement to protect her from the big bad wolf not knowing that ****** and ******* turned him into a wolf and he huffed and puffed til he blew her down blew her dead

he felt his heart hit the flat line as her heart stopped for seconds in the ambulance that night he felt everything warp into everything he's ever known everything he's ever had, ever los. he felt the drugs warp into her as if she was the side effect instead of the addiction. the drugs gave them the illusion of being alive while remaining two lifeless, misguided souls.

miraculously they were able to revive her back to life but comatosed with only monitors and tubes sustaining her "life".
that night he dreamt of being with her and holding her hand for the last time as they made a pact, the promise; that they would both get better, get help, get rehab, have blood in their bloodstreams again and have normal functioning lives. they parted with a promise and a someday; that someday they'd meet again when things were right and the stars have aligned maybe, maybe. they kissed and touched in one another's presence before they parted in different directions, for freedom for the better it was a dream within reality. he knew she dreamt it too, that they were stars weaved in the same dream.

he walked closer, to where she was, still seemingly trapped in a trance mindlessly but she alarmingly tethered too close to the water, flailing her arms inviting the wind to knock her down and be part of the river, be the tides the rocks skipped. he had to do something

" sophia!" he screamed, her name echoing past the trees and the trailer houses. it was enough or her to look at him with those eyes, the same eyes that said it all before. recognition fleeted for a second before it went blank but she stopped tethering and perched herself on the bridge

he gave her a lift and took her home to the dorm she was newly staying at for the semester (it was hard to get it out of her from her drunken slurs almost like he had to pull her back from space) and on his drive back with a cigarette perched on his lips he thought about the way he laid her down, passed out and how he stayed for a bit longer, letting his fingers linger across her hair spun from golden silk and the lopsided smile that hung in her face while she slept.

he wondered most of all if she really got better, if the dark was behind her and if she was truly beyond it. he really wanted to believe the pictures that lined the walls,pictures of her smiling, with her friends, her family months after the promise.

she did look better, her skin baring a hint of plumpness and had a healthy glow replacing the sagging hollow that lived in it all those months. after the episode he witnessed (she did reek of ***** and had bloodshot eyes and was shaking not to mention the trance she was in), he didn't know if she was only good at keeping up the "better" facade. but he had his fingers crossed

he was about to let himself out, an ache growling in his stomach as they were to be separated again but he guessed it was the closest they would ever be.

"tell james i love him. always"

his head swiveled back to her and she was still tucked asleep. he could've sworn she said it, he couldn't be hearing things-after being eight months clean of substance usage.

he felt the familiar burn of the cigarette, and he threw it out of the window leaving the remnants of the nicotine inside him. he hated himself for lighting one up and keeping a half pack all this time. this was his first successful relapse and it was all because of her. like a ship tied down to an anchor;he was still tied to her, invisible ropes weighing him back to her ghost



she would always be his downfall
possible trigger warning
Zac C Mar 2013
Watch the moon
   glide away
           from the
                            world
                   and
         slip,
comatosed,
uncomfortable,        
and                    
isolated.      
leave
      the
                moon
                      to
                              itself,
                    and
              watch
the
smile          
grow:                
  The                              
smile                                  
of                                          
the                                    
world                  
slipping
     away
between
your            
fingers.
6/27/11

A daze...
Scotty Reynolds Jun 2018
You draw me in with false promises, and forever let me down
You promise escape & happiness, but it just ends in a frown
Not from me of course, as I’m laid here snoozing
A constant disappointment I feel, so I carry on the boozing.

What am I running from? Anesthetised I lay
And coast through each and every hour, of the following day.
Your everywhere I look! Buses, billboards, even litter
Trying to draw us in with your intoxicating glitter.

Your so ****** acceptable, I’m a FREAK if I abstain
“Oh goo on kid, one waint hurt, stop being a chuffin pain”
BUT what they fail to understand, is at 1 it does not stop!
The moment that sip will pass my lips, I’m craving the next drop.
Or 2 or 3 or “**** this ****, I’m off to the bottle shop”
In fear my stash will not suffice my seeming desire to flop.

Fast forward half an hour, and here I am again
Snoring like a pig, much to the families disdain
Iphone started, camera rolling, my daughter hits record
She watches Daddy comatosed, her memory stamped APPALLED!

“No goodnight kiss, no cuddles tight, no tickles once again”
Her hero lays before her, vest adorned with red wine stains
“What’s wrong with me?” she wonders “why’s he chose wine over me?
And my sis & mummy too, is he too blind to see?
Your consuming liquid memory thief, don’t forget us dad
Im learning all I know from you, is this how fun is had?
Or adult relaxation? Or when you’re feeling stressed!
Does drinking really do all this? WOW IT SOUNDS THE BEST!
But if it really is this good, then what you fail to see….
Is your family stood before you whilst you pass out on the settee!
I was a daily drinker. I would fall asleep each night drunk on the sofa... until 1 night...my daughter filmed me passed out drunk on the settee, snoring, belly hanging out, red wine stains on vest. I found the video the next day. The rest is history. 9 months sober now and never going back!
Terry Collett May 2014
Laid to rest,
stone in place,
legend chiselled
and name
and words
and such,
flowers
in place.

Laid to rest-
but not,
my son,
for us,
the memories too strong,
too recent ,
to put to sleep or rest.

Waves of it rush
against the shores of self,
digging in deep,
pushing heart
and sense aside,
raising the ghostly
images to sight.

Who spoke last?
Who conversed
in final hours?
How dark the ward.
I helped you
best I could.

Unknowing,
promised
of the morrow returning,
but then too late,
just the comatosed you
to greet, the last
drawn out day of demise.

Laid to rest,
stone in place,
words chiselled,
ashes encased,
buried, flowers,
prayers said.

You,
my son,
stoic by nature,
warrior to the core;
why does
the sun rise?
What was
it all for?
A FATHER TALKS TO HIS DEAD SON.
Ashly Kocher Jan 2019
A sudden pause
You remain still
In hopes you won’t be seen
Comatosed like swallowing a pill
Don’t blink, don’t breath to much
Drifting away, staying frozen and such
If you don’t move, you won’t be noticed
You’ll be hidden in plain sight
Remaining in your own self bliss
Terry Collett May 2014
Aba would
have been there
Ole
had he known

would not
have left you so
facing death alone
that first time

bedded in that
hospital ward
that late evening

had they drawn
the curtains by then
Ole?

Was it still dull
that end
despite the light?

Who found you
and were they
there in time
that first time around?

Did you murmur
make moan
make sound?

Aba would
have given his life
for yours any day
given his limbs
his eyes
his speech
but too late
he didn't know
until they phoned
when they managed
to reach

remember Ole
you are loved
not forgotten

Aba and family
made it
the second time
around
but you
were comatosed
and made no sign
or sound.
CONVERSATION WITH A DEAD SON.
Chapter One.

Taste the crap fully.
The corn eyes comatosed....
stuck
In between the folds of mash potato like obedience.
Fuckery makes hate great again.
The horrible rift established by
Religiously intolerant thetoric.
Reacting becomes classic.
Suffocation slowly creeps in and becomes expected.
The silence becomes tragic,
as the first amendment is shredded  into nothingness.
And soon the corn eyes begins to multiply,
as stinking crap blinds the dreams of its corn fed yellow eyes.
Remember, fake news like corn never sits well in the tummy.
Comes out at the other end.
Brown chunky oatmeal,
with corn eyes wide open looking stuck upon the mountains and mountains
of left over **** traffic coming to a sudden halt.
Where is lady liberty?
My original democracy loving tv dinner Mommy.
Who knows....
This is the diary of zombie corn eyes.

Next Week....
Chapter Two.
When a new jacking off tax becomes a liability for those professionals tryimg to make money off their favorite part time hobby.

(C) copyright 2020
The erosion of commonsense and freedom of speech
John michalski Aug 2015
I smile more often than usual when your around.  
Comatosed by the feeling that you give,
A sweet sensation.
The strength to nurture my soul with just one look.
But the feeling,
That dreadful feeling,  
Can pour right out of me like a glass of wine.
Watching butterflies fly,
Between two bushes in love like you and I.
Im possessed by your love.
Unfinished poem.
J J Jun 2020
Comatosed with open gaze insinuating
Morphine daydreams,
With bristling hairs along arms
Before she had the chance to shave
and the folicles deactivated;
It is her womb she has devoted
For the public eye;
How it slowly rots, from incarnadine
-as the historical pictures aside her show-
To it's current viridian swelter;
Like an ugly robust bruise too tough to die.

Rupturing outward a torridness
Of legs and crooked fingers stuck to half-grip,
Scanning southly one notes globules of goosebumps
Haunting up her thighs,
Pricking cloudward and shivering implying that,atleast,
For a second whilst living she was aware of this—
Her impending fate.

Red,red,red lips
bud close to form a cute,poppish image,
Honouring those photographers who come and go—
Her tiny hands are posited to corner her tiny *******
As not to stir any further controversy.
The lady in the jar awaits the usuals,while blind
to her own doing so,

Mind overrun and on display like a faulty calculator
Via that dull, happy, gaze.

She smells up the room of exquisite perfume and
Quixotic trees and fields and roads and too much more to mention...

The fee these stranger's would scavage from their pockets
Just to be awarded a chance to touch
The fair lady’s skin and determine a better verdict
As to whether or not she meant all that much to the world
at all.

— The End —