NaPoWriMo #13 - The Ghazal One

Struck dumb are we?  Impossible eh?  I found a way.  Easy really.  ‘Fuck off.’

Let’s not pretend.  I saved your embarrassment.  We all knew you had no spine,  so I used mine.  ‘Fuck off.’

The clock ticked backwards.  Problems get magnified when no-one can be arsed to solve them.

You’d watch TV.  I’d write all night.  You’d visit your friends, until the end.  Until, ‘Fuck off.’

Fucking was like fighting.  Eye gouching and dirty tactics.  A real desire to hurt.

I spiked myself with Viagra.  And again.  And again.  Every stroke hate filled, telling your vagina, ‘Fuck off.’

When was it that we began to eat at different times on our old pine IKEA table now unable to bear a load equal to two full dinner plates?

Our last meal wasn’t exactly pleasant.  Peasant food burnt.  Like our patience, our compassion.  You told me to, ‘Get fucked.’  I told you to, ‘Fuck off.’

What a messy divorce!  That took some time to finalize! You benefitted financially I recall.  Ties now cut.

I see you every once in a while, and realise I’m still bound to you, because I always greet you with the words, ‘Fuck off.’

NaPoWriMo #12 - Douces Ain't Valentined Armour

Original poem is ...

Douce Saint-Valentin d'amour

Le coeur qui crie l'amour,

pour cette femme tout les jours,

celle qui a notre coeur,

et notre bonheur ...

Une femme parfaite à nos yeux,

nos yeux tant amoureux,

on était à la recherche d'amour,

et enfin elle est là chaque jour ...

Une saint-valentin dans ses bras,

où on glisse des mots tout bas,

pour dire son amour,

qui pour elle durera toujours ...

Elle qui a notre coeur,

qui sèche nos pleurs,

et en cette belle saint-valentin,

cet amour ne fait qu'un ...

Certains attendent des bébés,

et d'autres seulement à s'aimer,

certains vont se mariés,

et d'autres l'amour fêté ..

My homophonically translated version ... 

Douces Ain't Valentined Armour

Liquor key cry 'Armour!'

Pours it from tout (towt).
Leisures.

Celery a note - Corrrr!

And note ... 

Bon her.

You never me parf!

Ate a nose? Yuk!

No yuk tea ant?

Ammo Rioch!

One tayta (potato) are all churched.

'Armour!'

-Eaten finalist lack ache jaw.

Young Saint Valentine dances bras.

Oooh English? 
Desmond Stout?

Bastard!

Iree son! - Armour quip 

Our 'ell (hell) do re-rat.

Ouch!

Ours!

Elk, we a know trek - Ooh err

Quiz ache nose?

Plea yours?

E (he) tea set.

'Bell essay, innit Valentine!'

'Set?'

'Armour!'

'NEVER!  IT QUEUE ON!'

Certain attendants - day babies

ET doubt ... 

Resale?

'He meant a same ... errr ... certain foncies Marys.'

ET doubt ...

Reslam?

Our fate?

The Creeper - NaPoWriMo #11

He creeps down the hall

Of a regular 2 up 2 down

Like a cat he saw one time

On a David Attenborough show.

There’s a Darth Vadaresque sound

Coming from a bedroom upstairs

Getting inside his brain, overtaking him,

And because he’s scared of Darth Vadar

He thinks of nothing but Darth Vadar

(Black helmet/Black cape/The dark side)

                ‘Koohhh-Kuuhhh’

(Black helmet/Black cape/The dark side)

                ‘Koohhh-Kuuhhh’

(Black helmet/Black cape/The dark side)

                ‘Koohhh-Kuuhhh’

And his own lack of personal power.

-No-one ever said to him,

‘The force is strong in you.’

His sphincter widens a little

Forcing him to re-focus,

Tenses the muscles of the anus,

Remembers what he’s he for.

But the hallway stinks.

Embassy Red, Regal Blue, Bells whiskey.

The ceiling overhead is yellow,

Painted slowly over years.

He creeps down the hall some more,

Like a cat he saw, and addresses the fridge.

(Wants to have a look inside, see what’s revealed)

(That’s what he does/Irish stock/Big family/Not much money)

(Gets to know people this way)

It’s like opening the case from Pulp Fiction.

He’d never seen a carton of orange juice in his life.

Never tasted that happiness.

Imagine.

A poor boys idea of riches.

The man from Del Monte told him so.

He squeezes the carton a little

Gently opening the scissor cut slit

Feels the cold air rising and

Trys to imagine what this will taste like.

He licks his lips,

Tenses the muscles of his anus,

Clenches his buttocks,

And dives on in,

Lips first.

The first thing he notices is the taste.

It’s not right.

Something’s not right.

His belly burns.

He feels like farting,

Or shitting,

Or puking,

Or buckling.

Mind scrambling,

Reaching for truth,

Gag reflex activated.

Retch.

Retch.

Retch.

All in silence.

He never asked his Nan why she stored vinegar in that carton of orange juice.

2.09am - NaPoWriMo #10

I’ve fuck all to write tonight

I’m tired

And I should know better

I can hear my wife sleeping in our room down the hall

And I want what she has

But she isn’t a poet

Nor has she any idea what NaPoWriMo is

That Fat Cunt - NaPoWriMo #9

Asked me if I was sixteen

I told him that I was

But I think he knew that I wasn’t

In fact I’m sure of it

Asked me if I knew anyone in the area

This road in particular

And when I told him I did

He said I had to leave by the back door

Just in case

And even though I knew this was wrong

It became …

More wrong

If you can understand that

Bell Green Road Park - NaPoWriMo #8

They came at us,

Twenty or so skinheads,

For no apparent reason.

Maybe it was because

I didn’t have a skinhead

Or a Harrington jacket.

Next day saw me in new clothes

And a new haircut,

Just like my brothers.