The Poetry Of.
Christopher Major.................................
Shitty Pants
The muddle in
her brain growing,
shoving her slowly
to the side of life.
Spirit dead,
body playing catch-up.
Lurching local streets
bony palm balancing
a cotton mass
that weighs existence
and finds it wanting.
Shitty pants
dropped in alleys
and bins,
splat under parked cars.
Night time sorties
to hide the embarrassment
of something breaking down.
Calls to a son,
social services;
the bait of security,
company,
24 hour care,
the nursing home
where a body springs
its trap......
Cemetery Visit
I hate bouquets
at crash sites,
a decaying colour scab
on every slip road,
just froth and spray
to the tidal wave
of Diana's death,
when feelings released so easily,
set a benchmark of 'love' in flowers.
I approach your plot
as emotion bubbles,
and my mind churns
a 'flower sea'-
distils its purest
to these,
pink paper wrapped
and dropped from my hand.
Snow Hope
I sit and listen to it
suck and blow your flabby lungs,
as outside the rain sizzles
on an empty car-park
that's blank as your mind.
Muddy tyre tracks stitch
together grass verges,
and while veins of rain
burst to petrol bruises,
your head stops a sheet
from being a shroud.
The dim glow of this ward
struggles against our darkness;
which is now so great-
it draws specks of light
from the night sky.
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