Poetry: Selections from Tom Stocky
not intended for publication
she was about 19
had lycra shorts and blonde hair
and looked new to it all
she asked for a book called the kite runner
and i asked for anything by henry miller
they didn't have him, but they had the kite runner.
we had both found something
but i carried on looking anyway
at her but not at her
the cold had kissed her legs
and the sun her hair
i don’t know what the kite runner is about
and probably never will again
staring at the flesh, tight sucking flesh,
shame has been fucked out with and cum on and sweated
into strangeness and
panting
waiting looking dead but alive and well,
all winter no sun,
the pools and the chocolate ice cream
and plastic panties, pink and tide
at the side of hip.
weights the arms and slowing down to stop.
the mind on but dull on idle,
basic mode.
no joy here, comeback later or when you have something
for me mother fucker.
american dream, what about the british dream,
go back a few dreams to the coal mines and the hard ally boys,
the smog and the incest,
bring out the creatures that
have been hidden away
behind big thick victorian stone
and crawl up to white hall,
burning them with uglyness
i have had these sore all my life
i went to the doctor when i was 8 and he said he couldn’t help
30 years later a new doctor said he could
if i were to soak them in nitrates
they would dissolve
or was that a dream to
when the blood becomes too thick
he said
it’ll make it through the chambers
S L O W L Y
then S T O P and they’ll call you No 128463
in the cold boxes of the basement
to get there, you need a key, only the privialged
have; to be the furthest away from death, or so they think
and the birds fly into the rafters to make their nest.
stuck there too much behind
to move
the mind ceases up, gone
arms become not your own
the brain fires
long late shots
hoping it will hit something
meat,
hopefully warm
between legs
it produces the hope it fails
cunt on screen
covers for the blind
so we don’t have to see the gaps in the skull
at christmas time
when dad carves up the meat
got to start looking for a new job in the
new year
Tom Stocky is a poet from Devon in the UK and has been published in Punk Noir, Bristol Noir and A Thin Slice of Anxiety.
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