Mother's Ruin: Poetry Collection I
A collection of poems written when I've been drunk, or sad, or both - but never neither.
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- 617 reads
Gallows Humour
Ode to Dorothy Parker...
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- 442 reads
#1 Draft
So this is the end. A teardrop on a match, Life was insignificant, but enough to extinguish me. You burned me, Set me on fire, and then blew me out. I always knew this would happen,
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- 408 reads
Analogy of Life in Three Lines
A blade of grass admiring the scenery, The flowers, the trees and the rest of the greenery With the faint distant rumble of garden machinery…
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- 420 reads
Black Dog
My black dog barks Skin shredding sonic rings; He does not quietly sing. He does not softly sing. My black dog bites. Teeth-mark scars around my wrists; He does not gently kiss.
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- 461 reads
Cancer
The sickest thought in my sickened head Is the sickest wish for sickness. As I exhale grey spectre breath Twisting and changing in thickness I read the warnings in black and red:
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- 408 reads
Critically Conditioned
Presented with your requests I crumble, Disintergrating into my foetal position. Protection from you is futile. You force and force yourself upon me And I flinch, I bite, I oppugn.
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- 608 reads
Distant Point
The enveloping cold shrouds the fields; The sheep, camouflaged, sleep. You can hear the crispness of the air Almost crackling with loe energy. Everytime you breathe you see your mark is left,
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- 637 reads
Mauna Loa
My anger is the hammer That nailed Jesus to the cross. It burns the fragile earth, Scattering pieces of hearts at my feet. It's likely that some of yours is there,
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- 703 reads
Medication
Dear Doctor, I was dying. How kind of you to save me. (How kind of you to save me) Sweet little pill, My future contained in one small pill, Luminous with life giving potential.
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- 438 reads
The Bucolic Plague
The road was dirt, dust and grass, scattering beneath our feet. Cows grazed unaware where we walked, Involved like children with cherished toys.
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- 416 reads
Still Life
I can still live In this still life With this still love… But you still leave.
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- 496 reads
The Value of Nothing
Let us play Pooh-sticks with breeze blocks over the motorway And hear the brittle smashes of metal fishes beneath us; What a way to spend a summer’s day!
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- 533 reads
For Scythe, My Beloved (Ode to Poe)
Ravens dine under corvine skies On carrion wed with blood red wine, A bouquet of hellebores fresh from the vine, A ghostly figure weeps my monody fine,
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- 589 reads
The Nero Effect
The light bulb blinks at me, like its own brightness makes it squint And wink like I used to when I looked into the sun. The white tiles gleam under the harsh light and I see the lint,
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- 439 reads
Mother's Ruin
Salty air pelts his face with coarse winds, Each granule bitter in its velocity; tiny teeth and claws Riding on the sea air. Feathers must offer protection
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- 439 reads
Pincushion
I am no longer shocked by blood. Scissors scratch what shouldn’t be touched. (How much metal can I insert under my skin?) I lack the surgeon’s skill of precision,
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- 464 reads
The Lighthouse
There is a lighthouse In the background of the photo I have of us. We didn’t notice it at the time. If we were ships we would have run aground;
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- 431 reads