April-May March

Post image for April-May March

by horrorsleazetrash on September 17, 2010

April-May March is a factory girl from Norwich, England.

I went out last night

To see some friends,
they stood outside in a tiny front garden
with a battered wall, looking worse than Berlin’s
and a rickety fence that leaned to the right.
They were drinking beer
from bottles and cans
they were listening to
Manfred Mann.
To get them in the mood for a night of randomness
they swapped socks
and compared cocks
using a 15” Helix plastic ruler.

I went out last night
and it depends how much you believe me
when I say that
I put away eighteen pints
and got into seven fights –
I felt like Scott Pilgrim,
and on a whim I torched
a kebab house.
It was arson,
the voice of Jeremy Clarkson
told me to do it.

I went out last night and now I am sober
the last two stanzas were written
an hour after I returned home.
In a haze I grabbed a notepad
and scribbled bollocks.

Tom the Shark

Hushed traffic crawled forwards,
the commute seemed to be an endurance test
designed to get even the most patient man
to slam the steering wheel with a flat palm.
He told me that he opened the door of his
Renault Clio,
baby blue in colour,
slight dent in the bonnet,
and stepped out of the vehicle.
He walked up the road
past car
after bus
after lorry
then he stood by the lights,
looking back.

When he arrived home
he went straight to the fridge
and pulled out a lasagne ready meal,
he chucked it in the microwave
carefully piercing through the plastic lid before hand.
He punched in six minutes
and thought about how he’d punched in the last ten hours
hitting the bag
like a hungry boxer.

Meal done,
he rested, clicking on videos
at first he watched a few street fights recommended in sketchy emails
from acquaintances he no longer even speaks to face to face.
Then he found himself dwelling in frustration,
fumbling without thinking about it.
Then he decided to sleep.

Bliss

For God’s sake, don’t say that aloud
too late
you’ve gone and told her that she’s mad.
Told her that whenever you’re in her company
she induces panic attacks
walls close in
rooms suffocate
nightmares come to life……
and her face contorts
welling with tears
rouge anger
the trembling twist of smudged scarlet lips.

You let your guard down
and don’t notice the rain of small fists.
If only she’d have closed the curtains first,
to save the shame from those prying eyes
always peeping in.
If only you took her to dinner
If only you painted the garage doors
the ‘if’s’ continue to list themselves
as you hold a bag of frozen fish fingers to the side of your face.

You’ve fallen again
hit your face against the floor
mouth down to the carpet
whispering to hell.

I am 18 or older

Orange peel curls litter the desk
he ponders failure
how successful he’s become at failure.

A ring of neon lights up his phone
a message from her
the woman with the surname he struggles to pronounce properly,
she reveals displeasure
in broken form
‘h8 u’

Surely they could have met and sorted this in person
but he likes to keep his distance
because people are silhouettes
dancing in the sand.

Biting the tip of his thumb
Itching a spot upon his brow
Pacing the floor for inspiration
Trying to think of words
before the moment passes
and she walks the opposite side of the street
passing as a stranger.

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