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Posts Tagged ‘blood’

I sat on the stage at the corner of the bar,
through acrid fag smoke picking at my guitar
and mumbling songs about tarts and their cheating,
but omitting the parts of how I had treat them.

The revellers didn’t hear me,
my words hid in corners of the room,
but for hours I kept at it,
spreading my knock off brand of gloom.

I near blubbered at skirts hiked up legs twirled in dance,
to songs that weren’t mine, that sauntered romance.
My whimpering tunes lost amongst their chatter,
drained all my energy and made me sing flatter
and cower to a whisper, and soon just a spatter of hard aching breath,
that beat out with my heart in tandem, straining all it had left.

I strummed the same two chords feeling sorry for myself
and the merry lizards clinked glasses, saluting good health.
Staring down through my thighs I glimpsed feet caught up in waltz
and heard their long thin tongues disguise their own faults,
their spinning and entwining in false jawed jubilation
coaxed my spirit up my chest and I raised my head in revelation.

The dry moss in my throat began to crack and flake
and sharpened notes rang out for self-indulgence sake.
I hit all the right minors and they consumed the crowd fierce,
the patrons stopped moving as harmonies pierced
their frivolities and drained them to absolute silence,
and I paused, grinned inward, then unleashed a toddler’s violence.

I sang so hard I split my lip
and spat blood at the crowd with each note I hit.
I cried for my mother and howled to be loved
and I barked at the master looming above.
Each string snapped off under my heavy hand,
which left just my voice, commanding and grand.

For the short time I felt it, truly absolute power,
a leader of little men, self serving and dour.
Held aloft by the hordes I became complete
and with definitive punctuation, they threw me out in the street.

(I’m already feeling apologetic for posting this.)

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Cold and hollow spheres roll the sky and sweep away the clouds. They’re heavy, throwing rain down onto my window in a sharp spiteful tone. I haven’t moved for over three hours my blood is starting to settle cold on the parts of my body in contact with the bed. Reminds me of a course I went to a few years ago; “Introduction to Criminology” at Sheffield University. No idea why I thought I’d be able to make it in the police force. Anyway we sat through a lecture one day; slides showing dead people at various stages of decay. If a corpse is left in one position without being drained, all its fluids settle to the bottom like the bits in orange juice or sediment in wine. A girl at the back started having a fit at one point, I’m not sure why. I’ve just compared myself to a corpse. Things must get better from hereon in. At least when my limbs are re-attached I’ll be able to get out there on the bike, do some swimming, sack the nurse who’s nails dig into my foreskin when she wanks me off. She should fucking cut them because last Thursday she drew blood and the only form of retaliation I had was spitting and she’d moved too far away, so I just ended up spitting on myself and that made everything seem worse. She’s about due actually, I should stop writing because my dribble is all over the keyboard.

Contributed by stillcheckingfornits

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