Happy “Independence Day” to my American friends, I suppose this is an appropriate day/time to repost this previous poem of mine, and beware as your party’s are moving into full swing
It was the fourth of July
The party seems to be finished
Wondering how long I dozed off for
Most of my friends have gone
A few bodies left, laying on the floor
Best I have a piss before I go
Now where’s that bathroom
Whoops, there’s a girl in here
Dressed all in blue, and she’s on the floor
Slouched in the corner, not moving
Her skins “a whiter shade of pale” *
Red lip-stick all askew
Then I see myself in the mirror
Agape, my white shirt’s moist and filthy
Splattered, deep dark red
Oh no ! It’s human blood
I turn the crumpled girl over
Her pretty blue dress, covered in blood too
What’s happened, I can’t remember
Only blurry images of red white and blue
My mind goes numb
And my legs start running
Out of here in a hurry
“Thump”, I trip over
I thought that bloke was asleep
I didn’t notice at first
His red shirt’s also oozing out blood
Holy hell, he’s dead too
I’m stumbling through the front door
Grappling, panicking, now where
Where do I flee to.
Think ! Yes, a nearby Church
Has an early dawn service
A sanctuary for my burning fears
And bumbling into the Church I go
Settling upon the nearest pew
I’m white as a ghost and turn to see who’s beside me
An eerily stunning red-haired girl
Wearing a dress of red white and blue
Memory flashes back, it’s Her, from the party
She’s staring at me now, with livid red and white eyes
I see fangs protruding over her blue lips
Dribbling fresh blood, hissing at me
She gurgles, “Did I miss one”
The Filia Sanguine suddenly grabs my arm
And her dark-blue fingernails dig deep
I’m seized, I’m gone, I know
There’s no safe haven here
“Where do you go to my lovely”**
Screaming tears of red white and blue
Ivor Steven (c) 2018
* A Whiter Shade Of Pale, Procol Hurum song Title 1967.
**Where Do You Go To My Lovely, Peter Sarstedt song Title 1969
For the weekend Photo Challenge use the word Organised.
Are you organised or disorganised or do you like to reorganise? Find a photo to fit.
I think for a part-time Plumber, and and a sometime Poet, my garage is reasonably organised, and yes, the car/station wagon, fits in quite comfortably.
Last week I attended my Fortnightly writers group, called the “Belmont Page”, and I recited a recent poem of mine, “Broken Plates And Rabbit Stew”. The poem was openly discussed by the group, and they basically thought I’d written a good piece. Then there were a few suggestions about how I might improve my poem. Here is my rewritten poem, with the older edition attached below. I would appreciate some feedback in relation to my alterations, so I can take them back to the writers group.
Rabbit Stew And Broken Plates
Have you ever had that weird dream
Where you can’t see beyond the screen
Greyness is black and red is green
Straight lines are wavering beams
Stitched inside your brain’s sewn-up seams
Bagged and tagged a pale corpse unseen
Blueness in blood and plasma in streams
Chunky bittersweet rhubarb pie
Injected directly into your open veins
Hallucinating a vortex of fun and games
Spiralling under cool moonlight
A bleak bedroom coldness reigns
Over mountains made of rabbit stew
Slowly eaten with a wooden spike
Digested, your tummy gurgles and ejects buckets of spew
While a hairless dog chases the postie’s bike
Dawn, a kettle whistle screams
Above the ice-covered broken plates
Shattered upon creek-bed rocks
After reading the excellent comments I’ve received from my faithful readers, below is another rewrite of my interesting Nightmare poem.
Rabbit Stew And Broken Plates
Have you ever had that weird dream
Where you can’t see beyond the silver-screen
Greyness is black and red is green
Straight lines are slivery beams
Stitched inside your brain’s sewn-up seams
Bagged and tagged a pale corpse unseen
Blueness in blood and plasma in streams
Chunky bittersweet rhubarb pie
Injected directly into your open veins
Hallucinating a vortex of fun and games
Spiralling outside in moonshine
A bleak bedroom coldness reigns
Over mountains made of rabbit stew
Slowly eaten with a wooden teaspoon
Digested, your tummy gurgles and ejects buckets of spew
While a hairless dog chases the postie’s bike
Dawn, a kettle whistle screams
Above the ice-covered broken plates
Shattered upon creek-bed rocks
Nightmares begun in April, ending dismayed
Ivor Steven (c) 2018
Featured Image: Featured image courtesy of Slasher Monster Magazine, https://slashermonster.com/
I’m frightened, and I’m too scared to wait. And knowingly, I’m arriving late. The ghouls are spying from the hill. And lower fools are poisoning her will. Underneath her, a wicker complete. Above, she’s suspended from a stake. The bonfire’s started, against the rules. And the crowd’s rejoicing, as the fire drools. […]
And secretly, I see her black cats drowning tears,
Are extinguishing all her burning fears.
Ivor Steven.
Featured Image: Artwork, by Kerri Costello, Graphic Design Artist, my amazing niece/second cousin, who lives in Philadelphia, she’s so very talented, and a very special person in my life, thank you Kerri.
