We're in a city taking selfies
Where people murdered for laughs
Listening to opera in the ruins of a castle
Modestly described as baths
We're in a city shopping on streets
Where the knuckles of history punch
Emperors were stabbed nearby
Where we had an over-priced lunch
We're in a city crossing streets
Where people drive like they're trying to crash
And warnings of terrorism overshadow
The fact we're running out of cash.
Day 9, poem 9
everyone's asleep here
everyone except me
i can hear my family's
in the shuttered
blue walled room
the sound of the bottle smashers
is a lullaby
the tarmac melts on the pavements
This is the heat that kills old people
birds drop from the sky
I have a shower and I need another
as I towel myself dry.
‘I’ve never been loved,’ he said. ‘Never.’
The silence didn’t say anything.
‘I don’t just mean I never had a girlfriend. I’ve had sex, sure. But love… nothing. Zip. Zero. Nada. I never felt that look that someone gives, that physical contact, the eyes that shine, that sort of thing. No one loves me. No one has ever loved me.’
The light from the window fell in a flat rectangle on the floor. ‘Your family…’ I offered. ‘Even if…’
I’m not going anywhere
Lying like I've been dropped
A Stephen King novel
Propped on my chest...
Imagine the universe ending
Nothing good ever happens
In the afternoon
Sometimes I wake
Like I just got EST
Sometimes I done a little dribble
It’s all the same
And now the evening's
Just a morning
By a different name.
John Bleasdale is a writer. His work has appeared in The Guardian, The Independent, Il Manifesto, as well as CineVue.Com and theStudioExec.com. He has also written a number of plays, screenplays and novels.