A selection of poetry found in a pile of dirty clothes

Because I don't tidy often enough and my brain's been too frazzled to write anything substantial. This poetry lark is coming surprisingly easy which goes to show you shouldn't claim you can't do something in front of people because your brain may freak out and prove yourself wrong. 12 angry men are still out on this new form of expression for me though.

The slow walk homeward

Turn it up, turn me on
Louder I can still hear myself think
And I don't wanna think
Too much
Not enough
I've been over this countless times
In my head
You spoke eloquent
Words of comforting romance
But in reality
You are deafening silence.

It won't go any louder
Press the plastic closer
The sleeping houses
Lean in, archways of
Curtains and lawns and families
I can't see the stars past their
Slanting roofs, only streetlights

Flickering amber flames
A dog barks
I shouldn't be able to hear him
But the music won't go any louder
So I open my mouth and sing
Along with the voices in my ears
This song was made for me.

Hips swing the sandstone buildings
Back into place
Arms embrace the skies
As curious eyes of light peep
Through veils of cloud.
Melodies splutter to a halt
And I clap a hand over my mouth
Perch on the hood of a
Red Renault
This silence is not unlike your
silence.

I'm watching and waiting
Holding my breath to
Hear better
Some whisper on the wind
An answer
or a hint
Angry buzzing drowns
My epiphany
in vicious beeps
You fell up the stairs to
Your flat hope
I made it home safe
There's a ringing
I can't shake in my head
And all I hear is you.

Better to reign (incomplete)

One can’t help believing gentlemen with Roman noses
even if one hears the most remarkable nonsense
from the mouths lurking underneath such striking features
and Lucy was a particularly gullible one to start with.

She wore her long hair up loosely
bleached blonde waves;
a halo with a rechargeable battery
and wings of blue cotton.

Not since Eve was there such a Fall
no apple this time but a ring
in a smart black coffin
made a hell of heaven.

Noteworthy (incomplete)

Every Monday afternoon
Emily goes to the library
and picks a new book
working her way through the alphabet
Today she is on D.

Dahl, Dickens, Dumas;
she selects a thinnish volume
by an author she hasn't heard
of: Darling, F.
but he has been checked out
twice since September
The paper is violet this month
which complements the denim
blue of the cover and in
methodical print
Emily says hello.

Her note in Cann was removed
Bukowski had been ignored
but Austen held a reply
a thin sheet of yellow
with a tiny lion drawn in the corner
with an over-sized mane.

Taste You

Apathy
is lying on a beat up couch
all day watching
clouds drift by
and people bustle,
hustle, dawdle, laugh, cry, live
down
below
elongated legs on the windowsill.

Numb
is being still
for days waiting
until hair sticks
to the cushions
and slick stains
are left behind
in the shower.

It was raining when I met you;
grey, washed out city
colours clogging drains.
Group therapy
bullshitted behind me
psychobabble
my mother pushed me
too far
my father was never
proud
there was a boyfriend
who beat
a girlfriend
who ditched
I'm my own worst enemy
I have to open up to feel
Bored now, I asked for a light

Arrogant prick
stubbed your own cigarette out on
my arm.

I never knew there were men like you.
every one of my senses craves your attention
bite me
scratch me
pull me
break me
i am yours
lines on my hip
bruises on my thighs
welts on my arm
you made me a heart of burns
don't ever quit
but fill our lungs with
black treacle tar
strangling smoke
lingers forever
in my hair
in my bed
the shape of your mouth
blooms
bright on my marble breast

When you left you took with you my faithful friends:
apathy and nullity
so I ran a bath
steaming water meet shivering skin
scissors hang languidly
in my hand
carving your name in
yielding flesh
crimson swirls in the dirty
bathwater.
I only wish your name was longer