A pile of broken bones
And a sweet copper taste
Shoulda stayed at home
Coming out was a mistake
Those dogs want some more
Muzzles growl with hatred
They slash, maim and claw
They need to be sedated
Waste of breath
Exhale
Where can you exit to?
Wasted life
Dribbles
Out of your exit wounds
A cold day in Brighton
A beach of war and pain
Nice boy's knuckles tighten
And soon they'll start to stain
Heart rate on the rise
And just like that it goes
To get pennies on the eyes
You have to pay through the nose
A pile of broken bones! ! ! Thanks for sharing this poem with us.
Lovely expression, whatever inspires your writings are phenomenal
Also, I love the byline about having no recollection of writing it and simply seeing it in your notebook one day- I have a poem I wrote at purportedly twenty three that I do not have a clear recollection of writing at all. Strange mental experience.
Powerful intriguing poem- surprising, as I was gearing myself up for a " beach" at Brighton poem, this turns into a kind of gritty urban dirge of rabid dogs and is it speed snorting young boys? I can feel the strange sense of a beautiful place like Brighton, known for its spas and sands and baths, being taken over by a typical urban madness. Colorful and visceral. It makes me want to hide inside taking tea whereever I might be. Agoraphobia!
Thank you for your lovely and encouraging words! Means a lot to me. Have a great day.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem
" A small number of rockers were isolated on Brighton beach where they – despite being protected by police – were overwhelmed and assaulted by mods. Eventually calm was restored and a judge levied heavy fines, describing those arrested as " sawdust Caesars." " I, too, sometimes read some of my old poems and don't remember some. bri :)