Poetry – Page 4 – Clan Witch & Word Refinery

Game boy

I wish I had a touch of you.
Your swagger, your play.
The sense to stay away.
A fraction of your zingy zest.
Never put those dreams to rest.
Slick, street and charm.
Even nullifying the alarm.
Player boy, fake plastic toy.
Playing the loyalty game.
Making them insane.
Lost words and lyrics.
Legendary mimics.
Nothing real to add to the wheel.
Round and round.
Pound to the pound.
Replaying the old sound.
New spunk and old funk.
Taking the heat in every re-beat.
Corpse warming ‘til the harsh light of mourning.
You should’ve come with a fucking warning.

© Natasha Sinclair

Out of Colour

She was so incredibly vibrant, effervescent even. Life cascaded over her and she soaked it up; osmosis from grey to all illuminating colour.

They couldn’t know of the tortured girl hiding behind long straggly hair in the corner depths of her soul. Trying not to breathe, holding her head still between her hands and knees; frightened little anchoress within.

She painted the outside with hypnotic kaleidoscopic colour. Energy was electrifying and luminescent. Rich from living, a friend to everyone, my love.

After the years of youth though; too much mayhem and noise, too much of that painted face. Too many troubles to keep buried behind a smile, she ran all out of colour.

I see her try sometimes. Try to paint it on. Her skin only soaks it into the dead grey; cracking, peeling, painful and raw. Hermit grey, only shade in the shadows.

There’s barely any precious life left.

“Just One More”

Early flight; foreign daze too bright.

Night draws with a bang.

Curtains closed, skirts up.

Old streets buzz with pimps and cheats .

Sex in the air; for a fair fare.

Her tired mouth, his wallet.

A classy bar, a sleazy toilet.

Part of the play, trip away.

Any old dud feels like a stud.

Pussy on the wind.

Setting up for good grind.

Getting low so you can’t go.

She lays her head to rest.

Holiday urge starts to spread.

He pushed her ‘til she was sunned down.

“Just one more."

Pretends he's not off to score.

Whore behind another door.

Sleepy head all tore with gore.

Slips in hours too late...

Stinking and slick from a professional date.

“Just one more,” he said.

Wet with mixed sweat.

A foreign scent had him spent.

Deceit on the forgotten receipt.

Deceit cheat never sleeps.

It’s always just one more…

Score.

Devil between the Lines

Sifting through tatty scrawled notes.
Desperately furious hand; pouring forth perpetual cocktails of mind toxins in blotchy ink.
Heavy watery explosions; dried time.
Tasked to beat the drugs, the sad drab clinics, psychologically challenged specialists.
Yeah, they sure were special all right; paid listeners who couldn’t shut up.
It’s too easy to turn the tables on the professionally needy; care couldn’t care less.
Unfamiliar hand between his own; Did I write that? Did I reply to myself?
Goading himself to take the leap; the devil between the lines, teaser.
The years trickle on; he somehow survived himself…
For how long?

© Natasha Sinclair