Submissions by TheAssistant
POEMS AND SHORT STORIES
Poet Introduction
Simple, a bow for an old writer's arrow.
DARK POEM
Published
29th Oct 2011 1:08am
29th Oct 2011 1:08am
A Tribute to 'Purple-Rain Poisoning.'
Let me sit back for this one
and inhale my cigarette,
it's going to be pretty watching you crumble
like cheap biscuit in cheap tea.
Custard creams, I used to like those,
now I like 'Sports', why don't you make a name out of that,
you cheap imitation of love.
It was all very comfy for you when you were bought
and paid for. You're a prostitute for greed. No more.
Little obsessive, aren't we?
While I am the Moon you are no Wolverine,
you don't even look like him,
what started that? Delusional.
Kudos...
and inhale my cigarette,
it's going to be pretty watching you crumble
like cheap biscuit in cheap tea.
Custard creams, I used to like those,
now I like 'Sports', why don't you make a name out of that,
you cheap imitation of love.
It was all very comfy for you when you were bought
and paid for. You're a prostitute for greed. No more.
Little obsessive, aren't we?
While I am the Moon you are no Wolverine,
you don't even look like him,
what started that? Delusional.
Kudos...
810 reads
1 Comment
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
28th Oct 2011 11:03pm
28th Oct 2011 11:03pm
Eve.
Florence paid no attention to heartbreak
and she crossed the river to be free,
I paused to watch her sunbathe
as everything felt the same.
Let's dance for stripping,
remove our clothes and bask in holy light,
stay a few moments longer by the water
and Florence didn't complain.
She stood, in all her glory,
shaven and as the pale rose
splendorous white wings fell from her eyelashes
and she took me home, with an apple for a heart.
and she crossed the river to be free,
I paused to watch her sunbathe
as everything felt the same.
Let's dance for stripping,
remove our clothes and bask in holy light,
stay a few moments longer by the water
and Florence didn't complain.
She stood, in all her glory,
shaven and as the pale rose
splendorous white wings fell from her eyelashes
and she took me home, with an apple for a heart.
679 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
27th Oct 2011 00:17am
27th Oct 2011 00:17am
Picking up pot plants.
The lavender stink
blows through the window
and it makes my eyes weep.
I didn't mean to cut them down,
as you planted them there.
Stars fill the skies and collapse
at your sick-scented demise.
Throw salt over my shoulder as I'm ever unlucky,
and roll another cigarette to address your
final leave.
I think I may grow a mustache,
just to feel the slug against my upper lip
and paint the slender of your face
after curls cascade,
I never did like a perm
as I wash them out
and let a friend blow-dry you right out of my...
blows through the window
and it makes my eyes weep.
I didn't mean to cut them down,
as you planted them there.
Stars fill the skies and collapse
at your sick-scented demise.
Throw salt over my shoulder as I'm ever unlucky,
and roll another cigarette to address your
final leave.
I think I may grow a mustache,
just to feel the slug against my upper lip
and paint the slender of your face
after curls cascade,
I never did like a perm
as I wash them out
and let a friend blow-dry you right out of my...
571 reads
0 Comments
LOVE POEM
Published
25th Oct 2011 7:00pm
25th Oct 2011 7:00pm
But-
Toads jump
but make no noise,
they're silent. -
A silence I despise
and I sit there,
with a broken toe and a flattened wing, on another low
branch to squawk from, to stare, to wait on
and I stand for no one
as the empty continue to feel nothing
But we carry on.
The toads jump
silently
and my heart continues
to beat too quick
and I stay there, on my very low branch
watching crickets prance and dance
but you're not here
as you said you wouldn't be
though I feel you
somewhere dark
But we...
but make no noise,
they're silent. -
A silence I despise
and I sit there,
with a broken toe and a flattened wing, on another low
branch to squawk from, to stare, to wait on
and I stand for no one
as the empty continue to feel nothing
But we carry on.
The toads jump
silently
and my heart continues
to beat too quick
and I stay there, on my very low branch
watching crickets prance and dance
but you're not here
as you said you wouldn't be
though I feel you
somewhere dark
But we...
618 reads
0 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
23rd Oct 2011 11:15am
23rd Oct 2011 11:15am
Ego
You can weed out the rubbish but she's not here,
the lights are out, the coffee is cold.
Red lipstick stains the mug, the curtains are fusty
with smoke. She's not here.
Writing was an art when blinded and bound to naivety.
If you listen close her words still linger
in the copper walls but
she's not here. I hope you understand through the riddles,
that you're reading letters frozen in time.
Brand new or reused,
in this house of daggers,
she's not home.
the lights are out, the coffee is cold.
Red lipstick stains the mug, the curtains are fusty
with smoke. She's not here.
Writing was an art when blinded and bound to naivety.
If you listen close her words still linger
in the copper walls but
she's not here. I hope you understand through the riddles,
that you're reading letters frozen in time.
Brand new or reused,
in this house of daggers,
she's not home.
735 reads
4 Comments
SPIRITUAL POEM
Published
21st Oct 2011 6:24pm
21st Oct 2011 6:24pm
the weight of the world
its a change in the weather
a break of the heart
its a crumble of feelings
left wasting apart
its the weight of the world
the breaking of hands
and somehow i find myself lost
in the weight of the world
its the endless waiting
for something to happen
and counting the time
until pen meets my paper
its the weight of the world
the breaking of hands
i find myself lost
in the weight of the world
at the end of all land
i stand at the station
watch you pull away
yet another day
it all ends up the...
a break of the heart
its a crumble of feelings
left wasting apart
its the weight of the world
the breaking of hands
and somehow i find myself lost
in the weight of the world
its the endless waiting
for something to happen
and counting the time
until pen meets my paper
its the weight of the world
the breaking of hands
i find myself lost
in the weight of the world
at the end of all land
i stand at the station
watch you pull away
yet another day
it all ends up the...
1001 reads
2 Comments
DARK POEM
Published
21st Oct 2011 5:43pm
21st Oct 2011 5:43pm
clean hands.
you
smother me in your blackest satire
from the tarnished threads of your hair
pull my resistance through the towers
crumbling
ever flaking
in our darkest skies
the lightening collides with my heart
and the thunder stuns my soul
with hunger
i am tempted
ever more by you
you
leave my body in your tower of cards
and yet stretch my mind along the river
with infinite pain bound hands and still running
you never get your hands dirty
make my body writhe with words so rich
and...
smother me in your blackest satire
from the tarnished threads of your hair
pull my resistance through the towers
crumbling
ever flaking
in our darkest skies
the lightening collides with my heart
and the thunder stuns my soul
with hunger
i am tempted
ever more by you
you
leave my body in your tower of cards
and yet stretch my mind along the river
with infinite pain bound hands and still running
you never get your hands dirty
make my body writhe with words so rich
and...
702 reads
0 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
19th Oct 2011 00:15am
19th Oct 2011 00:15am
Voluntary
Motions race, only colours,
in the night.
Romance lies somewhere vacant in the wasteland of my mind
and I ponder, with half a memory,
on the back alley by the bank
whether someone could just trot,
brandish a blade
and make it simple. Quick. Merciless. Bloody. Interesting.
Not that I'm suicidal,
of course,
merely well acquainted with the easy
option.
I am sure to have a hangover
when morn' shines bright
but for now I'm quite contented
sitting still, half-cut and weary.
It was simple, one day I can't remember, ...
in the night.
Romance lies somewhere vacant in the wasteland of my mind
and I ponder, with half a memory,
on the back alley by the bank
whether someone could just trot,
brandish a blade
and make it simple. Quick. Merciless. Bloody. Interesting.
Not that I'm suicidal,
of course,
merely well acquainted with the easy
option.
I am sure to have a hangover
when morn' shines bright
but for now I'm quite contented
sitting still, half-cut and weary.
It was simple, one day I can't remember, ...
771 reads
3 Comments
SELF POEM
Published
18th Oct 2011 11:37pm
18th Oct 2011 11:37pm
Air
The days were left
a cloud of smoke
and the scars
are one too few.
I left her in the rocking chair
to die, once more, alone.
Those people never know
how to say the words
I pretend they might
just say.
I left her in the rocking chair
to die, once more, alone.
And we sang for faith
a final time,
could never sing again
with undeserved attention
that always leaves me
ashamed.
The days I left
in a cloud of smoke,
screaming out your name
and shot myself with a black revolver
never to speak again....
a cloud of smoke
and the scars
are one too few.
I left her in the rocking chair
to die, once more, alone.
Those people never know
how to say the words
I pretend they might
just say.
I left her in the rocking chair
to die, once more, alone.
And we sang for faith
a final time,
could never sing again
with undeserved attention
that always leaves me
ashamed.
The days I left
in a cloud of smoke,
screaming out your name
and shot myself with a black revolver
never to speak again....
621 reads
0 Comments
DRUGS POEM
Published
18th Oct 2011 3:21am
18th Oct 2011 3:21am
Just a Collab.
The dark side of words pour from my mouth,
half-bruised, still lingering inside out,
a torniquet would hardly cut the flow,
the guilded dove searches for exit.
ashes of the past linger cutting away the air,
the lack of care to my obscure care,
faulty smiles gimmace through affliction
and the tank is always on red.
driftful falling bliss amongst chaotic thoughts,
even chinese takeaway and one too many never quite fill,
left longing always for more than ones fair share,
ashamed of feeling.
my eyes cannot read minds, only ears fall...
half-bruised, still lingering inside out,
a torniquet would hardly cut the flow,
the guilded dove searches for exit.
ashes of the past linger cutting away the air,
the lack of care to my obscure care,
faulty smiles gimmace through affliction
and the tank is always on red.
driftful falling bliss amongst chaotic thoughts,
even chinese takeaway and one too many never quite fill,
left longing always for more than ones fair share,
ashamed of feeling.
my eyes cannot read minds, only ears fall...
913 reads
3 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
16th Oct 2011 5:54pm
16th Oct 2011 5:54pm
Vulnerable
Police investigate the scene.
Dr. Partridge stands, in the corner,
disguising his face with his arm
due to the putrid smell.
There's not much to investigate,
not really. A man shot his wife,
a splatter painting of the skull
upon the wall, doesn't tell you more
than we know. Faith doodles
the violent art piece and touches her cross, occasionally,
after the criminal is detained, in a body bag.
There's a watery gathering on the well-kept lawn outside
as Mrs. Petty makes a pot of tea for the three...
Dr. Partridge stands, in the corner,
disguising his face with his arm
due to the putrid smell.
There's not much to investigate,
not really. A man shot his wife,
a splatter painting of the skull
upon the wall, doesn't tell you more
than we know. Faith doodles
the violent art piece and touches her cross, occasionally,
after the criminal is detained, in a body bag.
There's a watery gathering on the well-kept lawn outside
as Mrs. Petty makes a pot of tea for the three...
804 reads
3 Comments
STORY POEM
Published
16th Oct 2011 5:26pm
16th Oct 2011 5:26pm
The Scientist
We added pressure to shoes
on the feet of a young, pert ditty
and stay in white suits, at a safe distance
scribbling our progress
onto another clipboard of endless notes.
Near on faultlessly she moves
with her periwinkle shoes
and her buck-tooth, thining smile;
skipping, knowing.
Blonde hair moves to the hand of wind,
her skin shimmers lathered with sun cream and tan.
The surrounding was most
silent, bar the lullaby that left her lips
نام يا حبيبى...
on the feet of a young, pert ditty
and stay in white suits, at a safe distance
scribbling our progress
onto another clipboard of endless notes.
Near on faultlessly she moves
with her periwinkle shoes
and her buck-tooth, thining smile;
skipping, knowing.
Blonde hair moves to the hand of wind,
her skin shimmers lathered with sun cream and tan.
The surrounding was most
silent, bar the lullaby that left her lips
نام يا حبيبى...
826 reads
5 Comments
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