foreplay - a poem by Warren Griffiths

I don't want to know...

About your past,

Your present,

Your future.

Your ex-boyfriends,

Ex-girlfriends.

What you did...

With your sister,

Your brother,

Your parents.

Last week,

Last month,

Last year,

Last lifetime.

I don't want to know...

About your politics,

Your religion,

What you like,

What you don't.

Your favourite colour,

Song,

Poem, (Unless it's one of mine).

Your best friend,

Worst enemy,

Who tried to sleaze onto last night.

Which incredibly handsome and interesting overseas visitor you met recently.

Who said what in Sociology.

I don't want to know...

Your star sign,

Your numerology,

The fact someone read your cards

and told you that you're going to be incredibly rich and famous one day.

I don't want to know...

Your address,

Your phone number,

Your name.

All I want to know is...

Whose house,

Who buys the condoms,

And what's for breakfast?

blue haze - a poem by Warren Griffiths

intricate lines of blue

trace sketches before my eyes.

I gaze at them,

lost in their transient existence,

as they lose their identity in the soft cloud fed by my exhale,

that hangs beneath the light like a luminous aura.

A formless entity.

I stare into its depths in mute recognition,

occasionally offering a silent query that returns unanswered.

My minds fades, recedes deep within itself.

Useless images float before me.

I try to hold onto them but they slip through my grasp,

like formless apparitions and I am left with - nothing.

Emptiness.

Like a void filled with the echoes of silence,

or a darkness lit only by shadows.

A feeling fed by numbness.

Nothing.

I reside in contemplation,

twirling the butt between my fingers,

slowly watching my hand carve a slow trace,

through the ether,

drawing the fuming incendiary to its destination.

Pausing only to correct my aim,

I plunge the ember into my flesh,

pressing hard to maximise the effect.

The air sizzles,

I recoil at the first bite,

the burning dagger stabbing at my recognition.

A wave of painful euphoria sweeps over me,

and for a brief moment I can feel.

ln an instant I exist, I am real - alive.

But then, as the ache subsides,

and merges into the ambient static,

my briefest of companions is cast aside,

and I am left with - me.

contemplating suicide - a poem by Warren Griffiths

He stands at the edge.

Absorbed in the pounding waves.

The seething fury that snaps at the rocks,

salivating with anticipation,

calling him to its watery breast

To embrace its deep dark depths.

He stands at the edge.

A surely grey sky scowls at him.

Like a nagging parent who,

when faced with unrealised expectations,

shifts the blame on

one who dares not speak out.

He stands at the edge.

The bitter wind attacks his body.

Slaps his bare skin like the hands of a lover,

who's heart, long since turned cold,

yells at him to go, leave, get out!

Cross the line and never return.

He stands at the edge.

Seagulls laugh, taunting him.

Vicious names spear his body,

penetrate as deep as any weapon,

drawing blood of one who does not belong,

Death would be a release.

The edge is clear.

The sea writhes with pleasure,

at the taste of sweet young flesh.

The wind screams with anguish,

at the loss of one so dear.

The sky shreds a lonely tear,

having thrown away true love.

The seagulls are solemn.

Guilt has disarmed their tongues.

He looks at the edge.

Such a fine jagged line,

that separates dream from reality,

pleasure from pain.

All is silent.

He turns and walks away.

Just like all the other times.

New author, New Poems

We have a new author to post today. Warren Griffiths lives in Canberra and writes poems, not for money but for pleasure and fun.  His poems range from fun and light to dark and gritty and even deeper into the blackest part of our psyche.

We have three poems form Warren’s collection. The first is Contemplating Suicide which is a slice of life poem going through the thoughts before the jump. Following up is Blue Haze, and exploration of how it feels for self immolators and we end with a light hearted look at a man’s view of a one night stand and what he wants.

Enjoy

An Excoriated Cow - A poem by Kitty Blenkinsopp

An excoriated cow ;
My question, “how?”

In butcher’s window shop display
dressed meat on polystyrene tray
white bone and fat, muscle tissues red
little sign nearby of where life was bled.

An excoriated cow ;
My question, “how?”

Bloated mound, rank from afar
aftermath of cow meets car.
From dusty ditch heavy buzzings rise.
A single cow breeds many blowflies.

An excoriated cow ;
My question, “how?”

Great bones bleached in savannah sun
Life force wrested by coward’s gun
Pachyderms mourn in African dusk
Tourists pay bull price for mother’s tusk.

An excoriated cow ;
My question, “how?”

Ocean giants; nowhere to run
Tracked by radar; blasted with gun
From beating heart, flesh is sliced
Market fresh; gleaming ice
For science and sushi, the cow must die

My question, “why?”

© 2002 Kitty Blenkinsopp

Now to begin

So to begin the blog I have two entries from Kitty Blenkinsopp a poem called “An Excoriated Cow”. It is a poem sure to please those of us who are vegetarian or concerned about animal welfare about useless deaths to feed various hungers and a short story called “White Coffee Mug” about the ambitions of a young man and the small things that can bring them down. I have to admit made me envious of her writing ability and would love to be able to produce a story that would be able to come close to her ability.

Remember, If you have a piece of writing that you would like to see up here please contact me on Jamie.hodder1@gmail.com. All submissions are considered as I don’t really have any requirements other then the item is self edited and is entertaining. Look at the first post to this blog for further details.