apartment 2

angles upon high rise blocks
cubes against low hung clouds
yellow highlighted balconies
blue sky thinking is
thinking out the box, are
windows and recesses
will you walk in hallways?
talk in elevators? talk, TALK
button down your minds with muzak
push buttons, office suits, ties
telephone intercom conversations
will the sun reflect your hopes?
will the night hide your fears?
pigeons that rest on ledges will
contemplate the urban landscape
record your unimportant thoughts
whilst a drone passes overhead
they are dropping propaganda leaflets
again, you will say
to yourself, alone
hot air blown from underground
will the trees wilt only, is
flowering memories fade by
shadows mask your / their indifference
locked in your cells waiting here
staring at mirrored walls, ceilings
opening and closing refrigerator doors
stalking your own forgotten effigies until
until daybreak sets you free once more
with automatic curtains
coffee percolator smells
you wanted her, didn’t you?
the neighbour, you wanted her?
to knock on your door
and offer you her body
unconditionally
like a porn shop dolly come alive
with gaping holes
pull the chord
choke on it
cornflakes and milk instead
hot buttered toast, marmalade
a dullness that bleeds on the brain
is something missing?
didn’t they tear down the something?
replaced it with a zer0
now you don’t know
which way to turn
when you leave the building
because you are a servant, blind
tracing angles upon blocks
cubes against clouds
this and that
this and
that

 

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on y va!

this city is for walking and yes
we are crammed down narrow streets
leather bags and silk scarves hang in import
export emporiums vying for attention next
metal hooks for cured meats and bejewelled trinkets

we pass through gated alleys into hidden courtyards
that dwell in cigarette smoke blended with ground
coffee and exotic aromas from the four corners
where North Africa meets Far East and promises
lovers will meet their lovers under moonlight

the police sirens will chant a constant on y va!
a hurry up come here let’s go clamorous call
climbing twisting stairs to lowly rooms we lean
on a balcony and I smell your hair but don’t know
your name nor you mine which makes us equals

in this city which is a souk or a caravanserai
your eyes more dark mystery than a fortune teller
I can’t help but lose myself in this story
a humble poet with nothing better to do than
fill the pages of notebooks with his dreams

Dishwasher Blues

I’m left to empty the dishwasher
Now that you are gone . . .
Your last knife and fork
Spoon and plate and bowl . . .
And there upon your coffee cup
The outline of your lips . . .
I take it . . . and wonder . . .
Did I forget to put a tablet in
Last night?

a poem

the sea was romaine lettuce green
the sky a blueberry blue
the clouds were patterned coffee cream
the boats a lemony hue

the day was bleeding beetroot red
the night black liquorice glue
the moon was buttery brioche bread
the dough of mornings new

The Mystery of Mary Bradley

Airman ‘Little Boy’ Bradley was very tired
Last night he had fought with his wife Mary
She desperately needed a vacation to Hawaii
He was desperately needed to fight the War on Whatever

Airman Bradley rubbed his tired little eyes
He blinked at the bank of screens in front of him
He tried to focus in on the day’s top secret mission
A group or two of terrorists in 🔲🔲🔲🔲🔲 or somewhere

It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go to Hawaii
It was just that he didn’t want to go with Mary
For all she ever did was tan her bloated body
Or feed his earnings down the throats of Vegas slots

Bradley drank another insulated cup of black coffee
He was trained to be disconnected to the enemy
This disconnection spilled over into his private life
And the boredom filled his head like the caffeine

He spent too much time inside this metal container
Air-conditioned inside but blistering desert heat out
Life it seemed was an assault of extremes
Us and them and him and her and this and that

He guided the unmanned drone on its silent way
“Was always good at video games” he would brag
Flying over a beach, what was it he could see down there?
Was that a woman sunbathing, lying on the sand?

He banked his killing machine and circled around
Hand on his joystick and her life in his hands
His co-pilot was out of the room taking a piss
Airman ‘Little Boy’ Bradley tugged at his trigger

And watched his missile send sand, sea, flesh and bone
In a million ejaculating pleasurable projectile gifts –
He flew on – successfully completed his 100th official mission
Returned home late and found his wife Mary

had shot herself dead

 

https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/mystery/

crap poem written in a supermarket car park

man in motor
supermarket car park
staring out the window
waiting for his missus
she’s doing all the shopping
chatting with all her old friends
blocking up the aisle ends
BLAH BLAH BLAH

Doris has a bad back
Derrick’s had a prostate check
only popped in for some milk
condolence card, pack of mints
blue badge comes in handy
less to walk and less to carry
a Lidl bargain every day
HA HA HA

sitting with his iPhone
not a clue how it works
son bought it for his birthday
prefers the tele anyway
mainly watches BBC
occasionally ITV
two remotes and DVD’s
WAY TOO MUCH TECHNOLOGY

what’s she up to silly moo
been sat here half the afternoon
here she comes thank God for that
home in time for Bargain Hunt
Flog It, Pointless, worth a punt
and coffee in his Corrie mug
but wake him up before it’s bed
SNORE SNORE SNORE