Sit and Bleed

An author leaks into his words/ the furrows he leaves on ready paper/ chiselling away at white stone/ he sculpts a story then pours himself into the mould/ setting red/ he sits and bleeds into pens/ refreshing every day near the end/ hence why so many are so pale/ the computers they type on plugged into sockets in their brain/ no wonder so many crash/ over-heated/ electric pain/ data migraine/ / like a soldier whose cold hate punches in fists of lead/ the hooker who buries herself in a tomb-bed/ each one tries to regain all they lost with some substance no matter what the cost/ drugs, fame, booze/ but none of them can last/ they all will lose.

Wild Syrian Ducks

Predators swoop in, howling to the winds, the grass below is dry and easily glows as they drift by and maliciously usher sunset in. Wings grey as the sky, heads unnatural green, impressive killers hardly ever seen, at least by those who live on to remember their burning scream or who gawk through binocularal TV screens.
And with their cargo emptied they fly on, enlightened as the grass below, the weeping sun. And slow-footed scavengers appear to reap the harvestÕs prize. Skin black with ash and embers in their eyes.

The Lake

Run through the dark/ through the streets the woods the silent park/ where the air flows thick and murky like the waters of the lake/ full of poisons and left-overs sucked in every breath you try to take/ remains of words and bodies held together in slime/ invisible it saturates/ the waters a thick sour wine/ except for where it collects at the edges over time in lumps of frothy pale brine at the edges of the lakeÕs lips/ cracked and dry/ the lake breathes out a floating mist/ wheezing all the fresh air in/ and with its outward puff it tells you you have run enough/ itÕs time to take a dip
The hovering birds create a symphony that echoes/ calls you in like nymphs/ undressing you with gentle coos/ there is no way you can refuse/ the water sings you in/ treading till itÕs at your chin/ no more words/ youÕve settled in/ the coldness outside soon takes hold within

British Weather

The sky slumps on my shoulders/ heavy, grey so full of rain, its droplets lick inside my ears/ tickle, brush against my brain like fingertips drawn to a broken scab/ a strange conflicting urge to jab and feel the satisfying stab of pain/ A magnet of infantile confusion.
 Fog floats in eyes longing to be blind/ slowing down reactions of a bored and tired mind/ they flicker like rusty fans or faulty warning lights uninterested in ships cruising to destruction nearby.
They fall forever under the weight of the sky.


The young woman sits outside alone/ chatting to a thousand people per night/ a gangle-legged spider in translucent green/ sipping green syrup in between bursts of clarity/ under the shadow of a cardboard bat/ its face looks so bored of her projectile rants/ tales of two year old girls from two year lovers/ too many tokes and too many blokes/ too much wine in too little time/ all night the audience revolves/ quickly intrigued but easily bored.

     © Giles Longley-cook 2013