What's that? It's Sunday? You don't get weekends off at Master Alex's Palace of Pain, dear! Now get your spoon and read up your poetry!
I want to call you, talking.
Serious stuff, you know?
Subtext phone sex
I'm saying, read me
I mean, fuck you
I want to wring you
till the last drops shake free,
Drink you, lick you, have you
drench me so I'm
drowning in your sea.
Tasting the salt
Waves slapping, dolphins grounded
Crashing on the rocks
Breaking to pieces,
eaten by mermaids.
I want to scuba
in your deep, you know.
Subtext.
Nice to hear from you.
Copyright Alex Sweeney 2013
That was fun, wasn't it? This, not so much - I wrote this when Cumbria was being wrecked by foot and mouth disease in 2001.
Fly in the body of a black carrion bird
Over this green, this pleasant land
Where there are no
crisp packets, pop bottles,
condoms, baby wipes,
phlegmed tissues, crusts,
crumbs, even of hope.
Nobody picnics, no kids to scream.
Nobody hiking
No gods. No dreams.
Now caved inside
the bones of a sheep's ribs,
prisoner waiting, unforgiven,
for the flame
in a druid's wicker basket.
The still heart does not bang
and beat, like an underwater clock.
Looking out through a maggot's eye
Through a burned and eaten space,
see empty fields through hell's keyhole.
No one man and his dog
No work for them to do.
Across the blood-stained hills,
Warless battlefield
where a thousand corpses
did not fight back,
the farmer's in his den.
His neck stretched out for sacrifice,
lamb of God.
One useless, work-hardened hand
reaches for the gun.
Copyright Alex Sweeney 2013
Dear gods, that was depressing! Let's have a night out. It's - what is it, nearly six in the morning? I've only been up two hours, I should have the energy to dance!
I want to dance with you
Take your hand from time to time
Touch your bleached hair
say words I may or may not mean.
I like a man, or a woman
who likes to dance.
What Scorpio doesn't?
The clock circles, waits to spring,
time for fierce beating hearts
pump blood, pump iron,
jog around the milkman morning streets,
training to perform.
Waiting for the late. Let's find a club
open as long as life.
We'll ask for Fat Boy Slim
Or Rammstein
Or the Pogues.
Go to that place in my mind
where it always snows.
And dance, as they say,
the everlasting night away.
Copyright Alex Sweeney 2013
Did I pick the Pogues because it almost rhymes with snows? I'm not sure I can see another reason - apart from Fairytale of New York. Kind of. I'm not sure using faggot as an insult is something I want to endorse.
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