Junior 6th/Year 12

 

 Love Letter

 

Dear Juliet, Madonna’s daughter, Mine,

I’d climb through hell, traversing Satan’s mind,

For you, my love, I’d burn my whole damn life,

Hijack heaven with nothing but a knife,

Because. Your face. It makes me want to cry.

With your eyes we could paint another sky,

Me and you baby, forever to die.

Like that week in Skegness with Grandma June,

Remember? Beach dotted with soaring Loons

In Famblys. Like the one we would make soon,  

Our love was like the seaside air that week,

Its round my throat today, so strong and sleek,

Your cold sad touch warming my frozen cheek,

I’d use it to forget war’s shadowed creep,

On my brains drain like monsters in the deep,

I’d fly away from where platoon B sleeps,

We’d spend our days beached out on lover’s dreams,

We’d turn those Afghan screams into whipped cream,

Away from where those slimy bullets creep,

Away from the bombs, shooting squad, and spleen,

Yes, your love was like a broken wrist,

They sent me right back home, to see the twist:

 

How is your husband by the way?

The new one, my old friend?

When did he show you his nice house in Kent?

And did he burn the love letters I sent?

And do you still have to pay rent?

Why did you just give me up? for lent?

Will you tell my poor parents?

When they find my body, hanging beside our bed.

 

 

P05T-M0D37N

A sonnet

 

So many stars could we touch with bare hands,

Teetering on right shift of pure demand,

Our dreams would become rich islands of dust,

The volcano of consumer surplus,

O Fullbright mortal go(o)ds we should become,

Imparting heaving markets- just for fun,

The Banks borrow(,) flooding utopia,

A growing buoyancy per capita,

BUT THEN… this bubble earth has dared to bu®st

The bomb inside the intellectual’s brain.

The fragrant death of King Agamemnon,

Bob Diamond’s bonus smeared with modern Greeasce.

These men Easing themselves Quantitively,

But who will take Credit for all their crap?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

sorry

 

sorry…

 

Dirty dishcloth out of dull water…

Warmly. But you still couldn’t build

A house out of flannels.

Wring it out…

Rough on your hands like a nice massage

That you lapse for. All. The. Time.

Out it comes…

That word. Out of the tap, outwards

Growing fifty scrabbling legs.

It’s horrible…

It writhes around

A bathroom splayed with blood.

Splayed like legs…

Remorse

In your gut.

 

Pathos out of Greek tragedy…

Coldly. But it builds her

A palace out of history.

She thinks you’re pathetic…

The crimson carpet clean smell hall

That she fell for, for ambition is a paper hammock.

She’s locked out…

It’s cold with the sound of whispers

And damp regret.

Damp with blood…

Growing big and small like the human it supports.

That’s her heart.

 

The Teeth…

Shredding. But they may as well be licking

On the piceous dried cloth.

Chewed up clothes…

That you crave to cut and kick into

Shape. So you can slip it on.

Clothe yourself…

In honesty that lies

Down to hide from guilt and glut.

And finally…

You chuck it up

Like a ball into Space and

Realise that…

It’s raining sorry.

Out of every body’s mouths