Pneumatic hammer in the palm.
Ugly disease, medication un-used, leads to,
Broken humans
Not knowing never learning always complaining often apologizing
I've seen him crawling in the filfth, rolling
in the muck
Always the muck, loves the muck.
It's a twixt of emotions that colour our world
from the unfinished 27th story above bullshit lane
Isn't it?
Don't ya think, Love?
Eh?
Look. Mark my words, Sonny Jim.
One day you'll be up here, riveting.
Very fucking riveting if you ask me.
Fix that beam, straighten that bar, lighten that load, pay that tax.
"Honey buns" she says. "Honey buns, I don't mean to be rude, but your feet don't arf stink. Would you mind doing another 10 hours? I have a man coming in soon"
She'll straighten his bar, horny minx.
So he just sits on his girder, above the filfth, above the muck, smelly feet swinging in the breeze.
And then a fucking Eagle smacks into the back of his head, causing him to fall off.
8.46 seconds later the creator of our wonderful planet Earth extends a hand preventing him from bloodying the filfth.
While his missus bonks his boss.
Girders. Nothing but trouble.
Author notes
No notes either
A contest entry
- the empty room of night - Contest by just mercedes.
1600 points, ended July 16, 16 entries
• next poem in this contest, remove from contest
Please tell me what you think
Comments
-
.
can't find the words just now
-
Thank you for this entry into the contest.
I've read this a few times now, and it's a real trip. I have to choose my words as carefully as you have chosen your images. The title and first line had me at a construction site, a building being erected over the debris of demolition, strata of a city as life goes on. I'm following the thoughts of a man in pain, just an ordinary man, just ordinary everyday life.
Then he turns and adresses me as reader directly, or is he speaking to his wife? Someone answers him, the voices in his head call him Sonny Jim, a grandfather's voice - do these voices come from him, or from the building? It doesn't matter, there they are.
'Fix that beam, straighten that bar, lighten that load, pay that tax' the world is always with us. The eagle doesn't land though, doesn't even shit, throws him from his perch - saved by a non-existant creator, while his missus bonks the boss.
The final line just cracks me up.
-
-
Thank you for you words Mercedes.
-
-
the lapses in your synapses crinkle like goldleaf
Adding your comment:
