peter A cross

ramblings from a troubled mind

Four a.m.

with 3 comments

Long, creased grey down turned sneer mouth tries to escape to
unshaven pock-marked neck.
Smell of piss.
Eyes turn back, stare back
glare back searching, demanding, commanding release.
Light reflects dull unblinking stained, pained, tobacco yellow, whiskey brown, vomit green.
porcelain white, Ajax white, sparkling white, so white you could fucking eat off it
white turns yellow.

Flower dried, a blight bleak landscape.
No escape.
Paint peels from wood cured in rain battered, wind scattered, shit spattered box.
Look beneath dig deeper, darker.
Watch the poison spread, veins pumping, reaching arching out
clasping, grasping, growing, growling spotted
arguing with the age rotted canvas leather tanned skin.

Is this the best, is this your challenge?
you fuck me because I fucked?


Written by peteracross

July 6, 2011 at 16:41

Posted in cancer

3 Responses

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  1. I’m a quasi-poet myself, and I like your style, a bit Sylvia Plath-like, but with different line structure!

    Alison Pryde-Fields

    July 19, 2011 at 16:41

    • Thanks Alison – I was just playing with styles etc. I had been inspired by Terminus from the The Abbey Theatre and Howl by Ginsberg, although I don’t claim to be anywhere near that level of brilliance. Damn I ain’t even in the same postcode, area code or country code


      July 19, 2011 at 16:41

  2. Peter that is so, I can’t think of a word, but it really tore at me. You can see it.

    Phaedra Nunn-Smith

    June 20, 2012 at 16:41

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