Christopher P. P. White

I am stuck in time like the poor fly
In a spider's web
Waiting to die.
Maybe minutes will move
...

When all that rain fell towards the earth
Like an almighty stream from the sky,
The only thing we both held onto was
That old umbrella.
...

Blossoming from a minute spark,
It dances with passion—
Igniting a host of naked flames
That surround untouched bodies
...

This music transports me to a noir America
With sin deep in its heart
And dirty brown liquor in its mile long veins.
And at the front—
...

Listening to a woman with
The voice of an angel
Is the pinnacle of virtue.
A rapturous vigour
...

Her warm body radiates
As my cold hands
Rest upon her strapless shoulders.
The bra she wore
...

I go to that coffee shop every day.
The coffee is never made
The same way
And the girl behind the counter
...

Those big wheels have fallen off
The train and we lay
Derailed in the mud.
...

I unfold the paper and read
This love letter I've found in my wallet...
It's covered in glitter
And doused in perfume.
...

On the outskirts of wherever I've rested my head
On the cold grit and tarmac of a ghost town
At 5am,
The only ghost in town with a phone that's
...

...

The blackbirds have nested near my window.
All I see when my eyes meet the morning
Are these birds and their black feathers.
They remind me of death;
...

I look around for solace or a place to run to
But all I see are empty shops and lonely benches.
The promenade was once filled with laughter and ice cream—
Now it's full of silence and sadness.
...

Higher powers and moments of weakness;
Guilt is surely the easiest pain to feel
When all you are getting is a vile judgement
From a bunch of wrong Samaritans.
...

A delicate note from a terrorised tongue
Or a melody born out of sadness.
I long to hear the story that's scattered
With words
...