Poetry / basting
Basting.
For S Curtis
Once our vapour breath,
Channelled straggling shafts of light,
Were mock curtains gaped.
The floor was a rusting tin tide, of decadent hours.
Embers, of a fire I once helped prolong.
A bloodless abbituar for the coronas gaze,
As the stench of skunk,
Hid deaths odours for tow days,
While you slept eternally in your chair.
No external struggle though,
Just a pool of plasma,
a stained souls- knee jerk reaction.
Kicking your spirit into the light.
Murder was clear and premeditated,
Our prints-were the smoking holes of bullets.
The powders and resins, that filled them in.
There seemed no gamble,
In escaping the doll cue.
Eternal reward for dodging bandit neighbours.
Haggling on estates with knocked of appliances-
Waking while everyone else was sleeping,
Watching mornings come and go,
A life time dictated by seagull’s squawks-
Reminding you to singe on.
The plastic factory, was the only place of work
We were all trained badly to use a Stanley
Cutting of excess round moulds we got peanuts for.
People didn’t dream here, they got stoned.
And that’s what stopped your heart from beating.
I’m arrive at the scene days after,
As they do say a murderer always returns?
My conceited crimes are evidence,
As I have sat on that brown stained chair,
Long enough, to wake deaths maggots.
I always knew the intent of their intensions.
The last time I sat there,
I saw beams Lift mottled fumes from our mouths.
The world out side, was preparing to flow-
Into a new day of possibility’s.
Sunshine warmed my face
like steam of a hot bath,
Rising towards a light bulb.
God himself had just switched on.
Nobody else saw it-though
They were to far gone, bodies among the shadows.
Basting them self’s for deaths lunch.
18 and another x on an old school friends face.
The price of the gamble,
Paid back in black suits.
So what roads of this run down port-
Once 70’s summer dream, by the sea-
Don’t lead to this?
These untarred roads of history,
The future has no interest in carrying on.
And that’s what stopped your heart from beating.
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Very good.
Critique:
Why is there a comma after breath?
Why is there a comma after light?
Why is there a comma after embers?
Why does every line start with a capitol letter?
Why is prints connected to were with a hyphen?
Why is there a comma after resins?
(you are putting commas at the end of almost every line unnecessarily. use commas the same way as you would in prose)
What does knocked of appliances mean?
Did you mean sing on? Singe is a cool word though.
Why is there a comma after factory?
Did you mean I arrive at the scene days later? Not I’m?
Why is there a question mark after murderer always returns? If you want that to be a question you could start it with “Don’t they say…”
Why is lift capitalized?
Why is it and though connected through a hyphen?
I think you could start a new stanza with the line “18 and another…”
I think the roads of history is a tad cliche.
As I said I think this poem is very good and well worth reading.
Good work.
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