Whiskey Glass

woodman

Photo by Frances Livings

The dewy kiss of morning light,
shines upon our wallpaper
water stains
crease the lines
and bare our pain
lipstick marks the mirror,
crimson curled
floral and mould weave
an asymmetrical pattern
breathing life into where we dwell

walls2

Photo by Francesca Woodman

We’re the sawed off pieces of vintage
lace blowing against the window frame
The rotting leg, of a Victorian chase
mercury glass hangs –
the ceiling; a cold damp place,
with a tobacco stench

You, sit in silence
with a comb through your hair,
like an willow branch bowed at the waist
once an oriental lily,
now a bud cut from a stem

I, sit in silence
with a whiskey glass in my hand,
fingers blanched
Blank and vacant decadence
a childlike glance

We can’t recollect
a time before this,
Our withered bones and shredded skin
glisten in the sun
breeding
an unfortunate tale
one of stagnant drench.

@ J.CALVERT 2017

When I wrote this, I had a clear picture in my head, of a beautiful women fading-vacant and a man with a whiskey glass in hand. A time of depression, where the bottle took over their lives. Not sure where this poem came from, but it was written. Funny how the writers mind works.

Do you often read your work back and think where did this come from?

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Little Miss

A little teacup,
Filled to the brim,
A crack edging the rim,
A saucer of floral flowers,
Little Miss, and her finery –
Of china,
Royal Doulton, a vintage delight,
Sipping infusion with haphazard eyes,
Haunted by the coldness of the outside,
Peculiar fingertips and tastebuds drip,
Storms brewing,
Lace and silk blustering,
Full in the tempests rage,
A noose of tomorrow’s cage,
A little teacup,
Drained,
Broken in pieces,
The crack runs deep,
The rim a shattered shell,
Little Miss, and her porcelain skin,
Of rose and vine,
Lips bleed, on her tongue,
Disturbed, by the heat of her heart,
Heaving chest and bent spine,
Storm clouds, hover above,
Empty in the mornings face,
A corral of today,

A little teacup and Miss, set in lace.

Deadly Nightshade

In a place of,
Of tethered grey,
Wings trussed,
In black leather binds.
Petunia,
and Deadly Nightshade,
Strangling my state of mind.
Tip arrows – titled,
Bent,
In delirium,
Eye drops of seduction,
Drip upon cheeks of damsel sin,
A fault of my own,
Indulged by the toxic tones.
Weeping in willows chasm,
Virtues cast in white smoke,
Foggy breathe and berry lips sealed,
White roots and pendent drawing my throat closed,
Sleeping nightshade.

J.Calvert 2016