Gnarled

Like the dead, knotted branch

that threatened everything below it.

She rolled paper with tobacco,

licked and rolled the thing.

Like it was nothing.

I heard the wind, it whispered again.

The whisper before the roar.

A flick, a flame, and a snap.

Dark again.

Apart from the ashy glow.

And the half lit smoke curls

that disappeared.

Slowly.

I tried to think of something.

To say something.

But nothing came.

I could feel her stare

through our night.

Her lips drew again on the cigarette.

Glow, smoke, the impatience in her eyes

reflected the ember.

Smoky anger now.

Still nothing.

I can say nothing.

I let the moment pass.

Our moment pass.

One more glow on the ember.

Resilient disappointment gave

way to pity.

She turned and walked away.

How should I know

what time it is?

 


Popcorn Stare

I could have looked away.

But it would still have happened.

He had mistimed his suited, leather brogue-d jog.

Quite badly.

The swelling gutter puddle had

trouble on its mind.

Buses are faster these days.

I think that’s what threw him off.

The speed.

He drew level with the black water.

Jogging, hesitating, now sprinting.

The bus arrived on time.

The soaking could not have been more.

Almost as if he wanted it.

If he had, he could not have timed it better.

Even his hat was wet.

Dripping.

He stopped sprinting.

Stood still.

Turned and looked at the big red bus now long gone.

He held his hands out to the side.

Looked down at himself.

Exasperated.

A look to the sky.

A religious man, I thought.

Perhaps, no longer.

Maybe that soaking was the last straw.

That shattered his faith.

God hates me, he thought.

I couldn’t be wetter and now

I don’t even have God.

I felt bad that part of me

enjoyed his dilemma.

If he had avoided the soaking would

he still be happy with God?

Was he ever?

Was this all that was ever standing inbetween

this man and his faith in the almighty?

A large puddle and a bus?

A drenched suit and hat?

Perhaps he was just cursing the rain clouds?

This is a good place to sit, I thought.

I’ll get another pint.

 

 

 

 


I left.

I wrote a note.

It was on the table.

At least it was.

When I left.

 

I opened the door.

That was hard.

The night air helped.

A little.

 

Left foot. Then the right.

It’s strange when you

have to remember

how to walk.

 

The pavement was empty.

Except for the trees.

Just me.

And the trees.

 

My heart pounded.

My walk felt strange.

Alien.

When I left.

 

Right. Left.

Pounding. Ache.

Fear. Pain.

Right. Left.

 

I didn’t look back.

My pain grew.

But one thing I knew.

It was right that I left.

 

Published here; http://inkyneedles.com/2013/04/06/i-left-by-tim-kerton/


Pigeon Men of Soho

Soup, beards,

trolleys, and rain.

Wet benches, words,

cackles, some pain.

 

Crusts, crumbs,

birds, and rain.

Stares, glares,

fixations, disdain.

 

Flaps, flutters,

birdshit, and rain.

Puddles, splosh,

gurgles, a drain.

 

Kindness, sadness,

feeding, and rain.

Begging, swooping,

commonality attained.

 

Gratitude, satiety,

repletion, and rain.

Bowls, spoons,

a soup is insane.

 

Bags, carts,

trees, and rain.

Grey, sky,

looms the crane.

 

Rolled, fags,

tobacco, and rain.

Smoke, breath,

enlighten a brain.

 

Ponder, pause,

pack, and rain.

Walk, push,

I’m back once again.

 


You are a 93% match with Medusa.

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

shreds men’s souls,

turns me to stone.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

impales my heart,

crushes my bones.

 

Her black locks,

more snake than hair.

Pain becomes tempting,

I no longer care.

 

Hold her gaze,

just for one breath.

I won’t look away,

I want this death.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

flays my skin,

cripples my soul.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches,

hangs my skull,

with the others she stole.

 

I want a girl that

burns down churches.

 

 


Mans.laughter

To snigger, to smirk

to punch him

down to the dirt

To chuckle, to grin

to beat, stamp,

kick in

To giggle, with glee

the bones now

crunching and snapped

So happy you are

you sadistic, drunk pack

To mock, and belittle

just a couple more kicks

Some spit on the face

then you’re off

no disgrace

The laughter rings loud

as you run through

the street

Another nameless slaughter

to add to your sheet

Kicked to death

but murder it isn’t

Not enough satisfaction

to see you imprisoned..

 


A Christmas Car Alarm

Weeeeewooooo-weeeeeeeeeeewoooooooo

Beeeep Beeeeep Beeeeeeep

 

It’s ten past three on a cool December night.

A silent night it is not.

My neighbours over protective alarm

is carolling non-stop.

 

He’s never had anything stolen

from it. A fact of which he’s proud.

It does get hit with bricks a lot though.

Not just because its loud.

 

It’s more the choice of carol.

That seems to get peoples goat.

That and the hours he picks

to belt them out on the road.

 

We Three Kings of Orient Are

seems to be a popular choice.

At least that’s what I hear

(although my pillow blocks out the voice).

 

The time to rise comes all too soon.

As I pick up another brick.

The walk downstairs is a familiar one.

This time it’ll do the trick.

 

I love the stars during these

crisp winter nights.

Reflections on the glass

remind me of Christmas tree lights.

 

The brick bounces off the

windscreen and installs another crack.

But the carols keep on coming.

In fact, I think I changed the track.

 

The brick is still whole

so I’ll have another go.

Joy to the World came abruptly to an end

as I smashed out the driver side window.

 

The spirit of Christmas is a beautiful thing.

A carolling car that just wants to sing.

But given the choice between going insane.

Or bricking a car and ending my pain.

The Christmas car will surely come off worse.

Not least because I abhor its traditional choice of verse.


Anagram Apocalypse

Shelf eating zombies hunt souls.

The den of the world is nigh.

I must leave, evacuate,

run desperately for my file.

 

Darkness encroaches,

I have little mite.

Thankfully, the zombies

are rubbish in daylight.

 

The inevitable must come.

What use is it to flee?

My skin crawls with fear.

Won’t somebody vase me?

 

The howling undead,

smug retools of blood.

Spreading insanity,

unleashing the flood.

 

A flood of hated,

destruction and hate.

I run shrieking and flailing

towards hells open gate.

 

I shall end this won,

die at my own hands.

Sod the wicked undead,

and their karts raving plans.


Hell Soul

Confusion stalks me,

it has me in its sights.

I am its prey.

Its only prey.

It reaches for my mind.

Scratching, twisting, stretching.

It is conquering me.

 

But the peace…

the peace is overwhelming..

 

A slice of Hades

props up my spine,

distorts my vision,

sours my foul, bloody wine.

 

But the peace…

the peace is outstanding..

 

Disruption provokes anger.

Hatred demands action.

Putrid stenches

destroy my senses,

dissolve my bones,

negate my soul.

 

But the fucking peace…

the peace is just breathtaking..

 

My loathsome energy,

despicable desires,

depraved honour,

makes me vomit blood

into the faces of angels.

 

But, stone me, the peace…

the fucking peace is unbelievable..

 

The cannibalistic nature

of the human mind

ravages any sensitivity.

Mercy disappears into

dark obscure corners.

I shriek for slow revenge.

 

But, my god, the fucking peace…

the fucking peace..


Numbers Game

What world would it be

if every clock that I see

displays numbers in pairs

but only to me?

 

It’s twelve twelve again

but then of course it is,

my last glance at the time

showed it was six o’ six.

 

What can this all mean?

My memory’s selective?

I know when I look

my thoughts are collected.

 

A sign from above?

The time is now?

A pairing I need

to unfurrow my brow?

 

But unfurrowed it’s not,

it’s more wrinkled in fact.

I fear every clock

will spur me on to some act.

 

What act would it be?

Something spontaneous I suppose?

And when will I know,

it’s these numbers, not those?

 

Nothing could be worse

than to act out of time.

Is eight o’ eight better,

than nine minutes past nine?

 

There’s only one thing to do

to end this dilemma.

That’s to smash every clock

with my pointy umbrella.

 

Time waits for no man.

That’s very plain to see.

With every crack of a clock,

I set myself free..