Christopher P. P. White

by Horror Sleaze Trash on October 20, 2013

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Christopher P. P. White is a writer and poet from Derby, England. He has two daughters and a wife, yet he still has something bleak to write about; poetry is his therapy. His first book, The Bare Bones of a Melancholy Life is due out late October.  Find out more about him on Twitter (@CPWAuthor) or Facebook (www.facebook.com/christopherwhitewrites).

Pink

 

The devil’s whores are dancing

In the chambers of my brain.

One by one,

Stripping away

The decency I wore like a heart on my sleeve;

Now a withered crimson blob

On an already filthy floor.

 

Flesh as soft as strawberries

And just as sweet.

Your body pink like roses—

At full bloom, I gawp,

Memorising every ridge,

Every inch of perfection

Before it is painted

With a tarred brush.

 

Honey and salt like gold

And the shaking gives me

Makeshift sanity,

If only for an hour or two.

Then the siege of wanting

Takes hold of my weak and failing values.

 

The beauty before me lies

On a surface made for slumber.

But tonight it’s our canvas,

Our friend.

The cotton lowers gracefully

Past the moist and gentle fruit

And I turn my back on the day

To welcome in the night.

 

I am unable to look elsewhere

And unwilling to try.

I will always be addicted

To the skin, the feeling, the pink

And the goddesses

That I worship

When my conscience isn’t around.

 

 

Per Minute

 
I wake up to an empty bed;
White crumpled sheets and her smell
That lingers like a thousand roses
On a summer’s breeze.
It has been
Hours since she left and I still
Miss her beautiful body
Beside me.
The whisky bottle is glass and no more;
The lengthy night was full of joy
Or pain, I’m having some trouble
Remembering but I don’t feel
Much right now—just a bear
With a sore head.
I sit up and peruse over the
Shithole of an apartment.
The clothes on the floor are
Just my own. She must have left for
Her dead-end job as a receptionist.
That’s what she told me anyway.
Tight pencil skirt and black lace blouse—
Perfect for a place in my imagination.
I look back at the bed and remember
Us there, our bodies
Lying together, talking about nonsense
Whilst I adored her hourglass physique with
My sensitive gaze.
Her button nose and
Blue eyes like marbles glistening
In the midnight shine.
Smooth,
Peachy skin, naked, grazing my
Course embrace and my
Morning glory; God, I wish she
Didn’t have a life, like me.
Every day would be full of purpose
If we could only reside here
Like John Lennon and Yoko Ono,
Minus the grand gesture.
I’ve been thinking about it all
And I’m going to ask her
To marry me. We were meant
To exist together;
We are the ocean, we are the stars,
We are what the unlucky ones
Crave. We are unique—
I love her.
When she comes back to me
I will ask her, I will make
Her the happiest girl.
Until then, I will hold myself in my hands
And admire her photograph,
(The one with her in nothing but
Stilettos and red lipstick)
Whilst praying that she
Wasn’t just a phone number
In the back of a seedy magazine.
Nightmares like this don’t
Come around that often;
We were meant to be and
A thousand dirty pennies
Won’t change a thing.

The lady on the other end of the phone
Hangs up—I bet she gets this a lot.

 

 

Leave to Fate

Don’t waste your time with tarot cards
And astrology;
I’ll tell you what your life holds and
It isn’t in the stars or the mystic’s ball.
It’s in your will to succeed.
It’s in your need to become someone.
It’s in you,
Not a stupid fucking newspaper column.
So take charge soldier,
Take charge.
Fate is a machine designed by the fearful.
It is a device for the timid and the scared
That comforts the hopeless
In times of weakness,
So that they can be rest-assured that
Somebody is in control of their lives,
Albeit some anomaly of fiction,
A ghost—
Just another creature other than the petrified
Fool that reads those fucking newspaper columns.
Take charge.

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