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Vote for the best PAIR of poems.


ODE TO THE STREETS

I am sorry, sexless street person...
As they wipe their boots, on your naked breasts;
and warm you with flak, nicotine and fuming
and retreat with practiced haste, lest
they suddenly discover that you're also human.

I am sorry, sexless street person...
For those unfurled claws, which cannot touch;
which have no size, yet anything would fit,
and live in reruns, as again you clutch
cold indifference, and smears of spit.

I am sorry, sexless street person...
For the pious profits and perfect peers
on whom your cataract gaze still lingers,
and you vaguely recall, the frozen tears
shed for a world, that you cannot finger.

I am sorry, sexless street person...
But they've already judged, your bulging innocence
and congratulations on it being a *****;
Thank their philanthropy...in your defense,
the gutter can care for plenty more.

I am sorry, sexless street person...
As the manicured fingers and cologned hands,
rape you of both, identity and name,
and your crimson shame just stands
as plastic pieces of a patent game.

I am sorry, sexless street person...
Because you clutch you life in that paper bag,
and make a mattress of shredded dreams;
for the untiring existence, you try to drag
from the sympathy of holy machines.

I am sorry, sexless street person...
For the pious preachers and prayers of the Lord
who zealously command the shouldn't and the should;
You're not the sons of a lesser God...
You're the bastards of the Greater Good.

I am sorry, sexless street person...
And I'm sure, you are too.


Madras

Morning after and the curry tummy
is becoming quite a rumbler, and
opening the bathroom door is the
new weapon against war. Gas.

It hits you like you hit me last night -
funny how the width of a table brings
into view things you've never seen before -
both striking, but both silently waiting
for the door to be prised open.

As the poppodums were dipped we
made small talk, current circumstances;
jobs, school, friends and family. Sex.
Well, only when you made that quip
about the two onion bhajis.

I started feeling it half-way through my
chicken madras; a slight burn, small
pinch in my stomach. I laughed it off
and blamed the chilli. You neglected to
offer your coat. I left you hanging on the
forgiveness front. Maybe you liked that.

Dessert was missed - take that tip -
so the taxi's came too soon. I kissed
your hand, bid you well. We swapped dirt
with dropped vowels and random numbers
until I crashed through the front door, late.

So it's the morning after and the curry
tummy roars, the putrid sick-bag on fire.
Your name buzzes up and I wretch again,
thinking far too deeply of the juxtaposition.



A Momentary Good-bye: The Eternal Bond Of Libertine Love

With sinister smiles we lock passionate lips,
passionate for the lack of subtlety in the sway of our hips,
like a metronome to the beat of our hearts,
cold as the darkness we lie within
but frozen in a 4/4 time with each other that screams
grim arpeggios for our love.

Morphing melodies from our nightly endeavours
our ways have become more artistic than anything else.
But like wet paint, now we begin to drip and drift
due to fingers prodding at our work,
and abstracting our instruments
of beauty, taint, and sexual desire.

We are silenced in a clash of monotony…
Mediocrity.

So as I venture throughout a world lesser than you,
my darling devil of most unholy perfection,
I see a realm that does no less than disgust me…

And every time I looked over I thought of you,
and how much you would have enjoyed being annihilated
by this odious society that is better sedated
and left to die while you and I
teach sinners how to sin.

Even forbidden, babe, you know that we will win.


Pronoun Verb Noun

She snipped hair short and
stood it on end.
donning diagonal jail-bar tees,
she called herself an individual.

She MacGyvered two bras together;
push-up on the right, strapless on the left.
Dubbed it her Plebeian petticoat
and called herself a walking oxymoron.

She sang tuneless rhythms whilst
strumming poorly tuned guitars and
muttering about sadness and gloom.
She called herself a visionary.

She painted a teardrop on her cheek
and gasped at its beauty. Air rushed into
her lungs, "Oh no, If I keep breathing
I'll be just like everyone.