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Sanctifying MarriageSanctifying Marriage

Your bedside table,
A sight for sorer eyes,
You were never one
To shy from
Sorrow harvesting
The ear of any man.

Furrowed tissues,
Tears dry inside,
Saturate with stories,
I know them all by heart;
Secrets are not so
(In myth)
You fabricate lies.

You have convinced yourself
That you are a ghost,
The world your haunted house,
Strangers pass you by
Unable to see
Your ectoplasmic energy
Consuming.

With your melancholy
You leave the impression
Of a miscarriage.
Leaving people
Who knock at the door
To wait for a day
That never comes.

You liar, please lie now,
Tell them you are not me,
This one

Last Spring FlowerLast Spring Flower

Take a pack of cigarettes
Consume the two remains,
Leave beneath a tarnished sky,
The suns light betrayed,
One beam I walk towards
The only end I see,
To unfold and bloom
Like a fresh born flower
Full of feeble power.

If I said my shadow was a friend
I'd be lying through my teeth
But there is no one else
Except a hollow me
Spilling from feet
Lengthening the sun
And every second passed,
Measured by the kissing gates
And shoulder high stiles.

With ground the colour of tobacco
My feet make cigar shapes,
In a coat more like a cape
My whole life kept inside,
Pockets deep with nothingness
Left as lint and

AffiliationAffiliation

Girls with long legs,
In skirts and shorts,
Are beautiful. Cab light and
Neon signs
Maybe make-up
Applied nightly.

Cigarettes and shots
Distort the mind
And vanish thought.
A blinding clarity
In fresh faced friends seen
Only this night and no other before it.

And in this bliss
That knows no pain
I see her dance,
In long legs, black skirt
And blonde hair tied.
My dreams are our conduit.

War PaintA bonfire burns winter;
the man standing
and stoking the flames
drinks tea from a thermos.

The smoke is sweet
and toxic in equal amounts.
A woman watches
from her kitchen window,
naming the shapes she sees.

In the morning
the lost boys
paint their faces
with the fire pit
and battle
the men who burnt
their lost homes down.

From the Window SillFrom the Window Sill

Nests and berries abandoned in trees,
Birds flee the mouths of beasts.
Rain falls discolouring
Tree trunks and the brick work
And forms faces in the concrete.

Leaves are in fluid motion,
Dropping water to the floor
From an overcast sky
And under a thicket
Upon a shed roof
A black cat sleeps
With her eyes wide open.

A fox screams and leaves,
Stomach and hunger in conversation.
Above turpentine there are no scents.

CrystallineThe pavement is accustomed
To refuse
But not the eggshells
And half-smoked cigarettes
Left outside the French doors.
Snow comes and covers this –
It cannot cover you.

You wear a paper hat
That I made
From the poems I wrote.
You always knew
Whom I wrote them for.

I see you doe-eyed,
Snow lands on your lashes
And in my hair.
The ice between our lips,
As we kiss, melts.

Impregnation of InfrastructureMachines in the streets take the place of men.
Children speed and beat puberty,
dressing both with insecurity and profanity
that stitches budding breast to bone.

The local troubadour takes his place,
yearning bronze earnings
to replace his guitar strings.

Streetlights become spotlights
and the curb knows blood,
making monsters beneath it;
stealing fast food wrappers for skin.

In Her WindowsillThe swinging of wind chimes
Sing through the open windows
Of my childhood fears
On this violent night;
Lightening forks the ground.

Rain beats the war dance
Of a tribesman's drum.
All movement is wet
In the undergrowth.
I make our bodies' one
And together we come.

I listen to the chimes
As they join the noises
Of nocturnal birds
That for a moment
Form words.

The MoorsA chest infection
cannot kill you
from our collective conscience
and that of the parents,
after lines in your diary
exposed his effect on you.

I think of your portrait often
and how it’s become
A trademark for evil.
You felt a nation’s wrath
and rightly so it seemed.

In TranslationI sit with a false sense of Paris
In the furnishing
And the obvious conversion
From a basement bomb shelter
To a restaurant.

Mirrors reflect the spotlights
And make me sit opposite
My reflection. I watch him eating
And drinking.

A modern jukebox
Plays only old French music
Written in the 1930's.
They sing about grief,
At least in my English
I think they do.

Surface TensionSurface Tension

The concentric circles
In your eyes –
Coloured, copper disks
That sit
Much like water,
I cannot swim
And so fall to the bottom.

The longer away from
A world which sees
Not what is seen
I notice the way
Your face can change
When you smile
And how I feel
When I look back
To remember it.

I'm dressed suitably for funerals
And you in a blue blouse
That let me see
Who I know you are
And not what
You want me to believe.

A Winters Night in SpringWe listened to Cat Stevens
and wondered
what our names would be
If we changed them:
you chose Jennifer
and I took Ben.

Sitting in the window sill
we watched the shadows moving,
and not the objects
that cast them.

We extinguished the incense sticks
when realising
that wood smoke
and the breeze
was all that was needed.

With a street light as chandeliers
and the traffic
and territorial calls of animals
as music,
we waltzed
to Nights In White Satin.

AppetitionFingers search, tearing at my side,
desperate to intertwine with my ribs,
to fill spaces where yours belong,
hoping to forget the emptiness between them.

Vertebrae align, my spine wants to arc,
aching to remember the torque of your ratcheting tongue,
the way it stirred emotions I didn't want,
spelling out my desires.

Toes curl, a fist as if to proclaim,
sheets can't contain these dreams that dare to speak.

But eyes are closed because there's nothing to see;
nothing to orbit around,
no distant galaxies to lose myself in,
no black eyeliner to focus on.

The clock ticks a patient melody,
while my heart slows,
and eyes open to a d

PorchBleak and cold, November coming like a freight train
Sorry little colored lights twinkle above the city
The heart sees what the eyes miss
The eyes miss what the heart wants
The cycle never ends
I want an early summer afternoon
I want a house with a porch, with
Windchimes and hanging vines
Potted plants. Colored rocks and shells
I want stained glass windows. Dreamcatchers
I want the floorboards painted gray, the house white with black trim
I want willows in the yard
I want heaven.

I Took the Blue BusYou didn't put the phone back, left your pills on the table
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You made cookies I didn't eat, watched movies I didn't see
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You talked, then you didn't, then you talked some more
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

You took the elevator, she took the stairway to the stars
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
You swept out memories, wrote a manuscript of dreams
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her
I had coffee and cigarettes alone at four AM
I went thirty minutes without thinking of her

She took the stairway to the stars
I took

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Track NineWe formed a sort of chapel
Where dawned my spiritual epiphany.
Each kiss was given and received
Under the guise of an inhuman feeling
That stood outside morality.
It didn't.

And that awakening
Predicted the assembly of our bodies.
No longer would the hungry go unfed.

We were each a thief,
Stealing something nameless.
You took off your trousers
And told me where to put my fingers.

I didn't think about your boyfriend
While I was inside you,
Maybe I should have
But neither did you.

I sat on the curb outside his house
While you waited inside for him to arrive
To do what we'd discussed in bed,
After we heard our present

With her HandI have always thought less of the leech
For needing another's life force
To sustain itself.
I have corrected this assumption.
I need her lips on my forehead
And her hand in mine
To keep depression more of a conversation topic
When we are together.

Feeling sleepless is bearable
If she's there to share my bed with.
It's like thinking, except there's responses.
That state is a kind of conduit;
Sex then is communication,
A heightened sense where we confess
Ourselves to one another.

As she lays on hands
My mind and spirit feel the benefit also.

Two WidowsAt the post office
an old woman with a missing limb,
replaced by NHS prosthetic,
cashes in her scratch cards.
She buys as much as her winnings permit,
gambling her dead husbands pension
to win back what her son is earning
working behind the register and serving.

Mrs Preston still wears her wedding ring,
Tommy was shot defending his country.
She sits at the bus stop watching the clock.
There’s a helium balloon tied
to the handle of her shopping trolley,
it says happy birthday
with a number that can’t be her age.
She sees the world
who look and laugh at the facial hair
she isn’t aware she has.

Birch Tree BollardI’d come through the fields on foot
and looked at the crops and the trees;
I fancied myself a birdwatcher.

I thought I heard gunshots
so tracked the sound like a trapper
to a barrel that was a bird scarer,
I’d only ever heard early in the morning.

I went through the trees,
eating the chocolate in my pocket
and pushing back the branches.

Metal frames; marquees without a canvas cover,
instead it was netting.
I drew conclusions and invented characters
to invade this setting
for a story I thought I’d write
but didn’t.
Those stations were for hunting
where men with guns would wait.

I should’ve known that.

I fo

FriarsThe taxi’s window is wet
and looks like the inner glass
of the last drink I had.
The buildings look like battle ships,
I imagine the movements
the wind would take them
if they all had sails.
Stone doesn’t float;
I leave the day dream there;
alone and defeated.

Black bin bags are left
outside charity shops
for collection in the morning,
if they’re still there.
Inside might be bestsellers
from the past decade
and clothing that no longer fits the donor.

It was a town spoken fondly of,
where the nation’s best bands
would perform. That was the seventies.
There’s gun crime and stabbings
and race related rio

Mirror DoorMirror Door

We wear the same jeans,
The fade effect getting more authentic
With each wash and tumble dry.
Both sides of your wardrobe are full.
I have no excuses.

How fond am I of variation?
Fond enough to dress you
In underwear you haven't worn
Or brought for me.

Most of our clothing was on
As we fell asleep.
I woke up having dreamed I was Syd Barrett,
You said something similar.

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Submitted: November 2, 2009
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Street Cancer

by ~Obsidian-Nightfall, Nov 2, 2009, 11:10:37 AM
Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Urban & Spoken Word

Street Cancer

Driving down deserted streets,
Liquor laced, wet with rain,
Wind blowing bereft and in vain.
Buildings look like battle ships
Sailing concrete seas.
Everything is made of stone,
There are never any trees,
Nothing natural about a town without a heart.
Big black bags hide clothes and rags
And books of forgotten prose
No one cares for those anymore;
The writers of classic literature
Years after death are dying.

Where once this place was heaven
Lights and finite evening life,
Music and wine, a gentleman's place,
Where women did not fret
To strut about in gowns.
Its edges now are rough,
Gutters just like bins.
It's a city scarred with urban tattoos,
That graffiti on the loos that the children often spray
When the adults go away,
But we are always there; I've seen it,
The blues and the greys,
I've seen it in the light when the moon wanes.

It is the kind of place you hate to enjoy
And hate yourself for enjoying.
Bars wail music
Like animals in the night
You don't have to spend money or regret,
Just stand outside with your cigarette,
A cheap drink in the other hand
Tapping out a beat with your heavy feet,
Looking at people
Pissing in the alley ways
Fighting their way through
Talking as though in tongues
They all seem like snakes to you.

Knowing this will never end,
Growing and growing you can't defend
Against these men and their repetition
Of Friday and Saturday
And everything they bring,
You can feel it growing
With fast food, drink and smoke
You can feel it in the bars, read it in the stars
Cancer they call it
But you don't much care
Because you know the truth
The same they gave to me,
I have street cancer but I'm free.

Street Cancerby ~Obsidian-Nightfall

Literature / Poetry / General Poetry / Urban & Spoken Word

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*prettyflour Aug 15, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

This has been featured in my journal!

[link]

~Obsidian-Nightfall Aug 15, 2012 Student Writer

I'm very happy to hear that, thank you. I've recently reprised this poem - [link]

~Written-Word-Write Jul 28, 2012

An incredible piece, so easy to relate with..

~Obsidian-Nightfall Jul 30, 2012 Student Writer

I'm glad you think so.

*TheDarkenedBride Apr 15, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

brilliant! this ranks among my favourites by you

~Obsidian-Nightfall May 14, 2012 Student Writer

I am very happy to hear that, thank you.

*TheDarkenedBride May 18, 2012 Hobbyist General Artist

my pleasure

!apple-dark Aug 31, 2011 Professional Writer

Really beautiful. The imagery is so clear and precise and perfect.

One little thing:

"There's never any trees" -- that line flows so well that I hate to say that grammatically it's left wanting...but maybe you left it this way for the flow? Technically it should be "There are never any trees." I think that still would flow.

Whatever the case, I hate to even nitpick, because this poem is so lovely beyond expression...

~Obsidian-Nightfall Sep 11, 2011 Student Writer

Very happy to hear that, thank you my friend. Yes, you are right, sometimes these things get passed me, thank you for pointing it out, I shall change it after this comment, much obliged...

!apple-dark Sep 11, 2011 Professional Writer

You're welcome, if it helped.

Oh my. I just went to your blog...I'm so sorry about your file! But like you said, all is not lost. I've done things like that before...I know what a pain it is.

But. This is a chance to just have a fresh perspective on it. You can do it again, and this time you'll do it even better. The sooner you confront it, the better you'll feel, I think.

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Street Cancer

Street Cancerby ~Obsidian-Nightfall

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