Category Archives: angry

Brighton Clock Tower, Redecorated, Poetry by Anna Tizard

Genres: angry, cocky, funny, friendship and philosophical.

Brighton Clock Tower, Redecorated
by Anna Tizard

I covered the clock tower with clocks and clicking watches
I did it for her.

Her mind is not unkind but she lives in space-place
outside of time.
It means she’s always late
which for we who wait is obviously
not great.

She’s embarrassed for other things, ties her shawls up in pins
for giving the “wrong” excuses,
but really it’s in her lies where lies
the abuses.

So I gather all her friends around the clock tower’s stuck up finger
which I’ve already covered in putty, perfectly nutty
– it actually is, with a spade-load of peanut butter added
to make it extra
sticky-padded.

And as the sun drops low ’til it skims the horizon
the coating glints, really slick
and there’s a rubber thump-punch as over-arm
and under-arm and doggy-ball-throwers flick
the catapulted watches and clocks which land and sink
and stick.

Thumbed elastic bands are pulled back,
so more clocks stack up in the tack
with a whack,
never slack,
though they ooze just an inch or so, nearly wedged, ever quite
slow.

There’s a slight glutinous slide like weights in warm marzipan,
or rubber gently melted (unless you’ve ever smelt it).

And the friends fall silent in their watchful surmise.
Was it the lies
that made them come here and pelt their protest at the
un-prompt, protracted impertinence of their pal?

“Lordy, how’re you going to scrape that off?” says a passing janitor.
“There’s a nice bit of time-keeping” – someone thinks they’re really clever.
“But you left out last Tuesday, forever and never ever.”
“What’s the point in all this time-keeping when time always eludes us?”
“But really that’s the point!” all the friends shout back. “She always screws us –
and it goes, and it goes, and it goes.”

Clocks roll and slide like giant mechanical bugs
creeping their hesitant way down the sides
and a dozen sighs decide.

She arrives, bundled and embarrassed
tottering on those run-for-nothing shoes.
Flushed and altogether shushed
a hand trembles in front of her lips
but it’s not just her hand, it’s all of her that quivers.

A giggle builds bigger and tingles tangles about her feet
as if she’s tripping over shingles,
trying to pinch it back.

She cannot.
No-one can.

Soon all of Brighton is buckling with the chuckling
until they’re bruised, bent and utterly unwise
about the time-trapped confines and the ties of their own lives.
For today nothing is real, it’s only the past that we make fester
and each time we put it behind us it only gets better.
– You laugh at this, you may as well have met her.

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The Curator, Poetry by John Taurek Baziw

Genre: cocky, angry, painful, dark, death, long, sad, rhyme

The Curator
John Taurek Baziw

A teenage kid has a threesome
With two hot blonde teachers
There are two people
With the Ebola virus
Out in Texas
There is an underground force
In the Middle East
Taking over Iraq and Syria
Through sheer brutality
Congress voted on Net neutrality
Whatever that means
She’s shooting jelly beans
Out of her pussy
Into this dude’s mouth
As I watch from the couch
Disgusted, yet somewhat titillated
Dreams get capitulated
Because dreams are just that
How about being a man of action?
Ha ha HA!
Laugh while you can
You look like Toucan Sam
I look like a burgeoning alcoholic
Like the bourgeoisie
On a Tuesday afternoon
Sipping vodka gimlets
Laughing
And smoking cigarettes
On the terrace
It’s everything that scares us
Place the tray upon the table
Pharmaceutical grade
It’s not that bad for you
Ask the Mad Hatter
Place the acid on the tongue
And try to remember the experience after
And you do
But it doesn’t
Have the meaning it did
When you were tripping
What you want is respect
Even when they can’t stand you
I mean, what is a slut?
A chick who sleeps with a lot of dudes, freely
But see, that’s just too easy
They gotta make everything hard
Hustle, hustle, hustle
Grind, grind, grind
Fuck that
Fuck you

I’m living in a trailer park in Malibu
With exorbitant rent
Inside, a bottle of Johnny Walker Red
Sipping Pabst Blue Ribbon
On my patio
Wasn’t the correct patois
This bitch is asking too much
Bikini top in cutoff jeans
Barely out of her teens
What was I supposed to do?
She comes out with half a joint
Between her lips
And asks for a light
Blonde hair and blue eyes
Seriously, what was I supposed to do?
She takes the chair opposite mine
I light her up
And go inside for the Red
And come back out with two glasses
What the hell are you laughing at?
The pot belly?
The receding hairline?
Or the arrogance that you can remain relevant?
She’s watching the waves crash onto the beach
I have my head back towards the sun
In the blackest shades possible

There’s nothing worse than listening
To a chick on her period complain, endlessly

There is no space in this place for polite society
People crying themselves to sleep
It wasn’t me
It didn’t happen suddenly
But slowly over time
Lazing away the hours of your days
Drunk at 3am
Still believing you had things to say
Fucking and kicking ass
Doesn’t make you interesting
In fact, it makes you boring as fuck
Spare me your reality TV shows
You all disappoint me
The worst crime
The point is to express yourself
But all your expressions are muted
Me included
But do I want all that attention?
Or should I just know, alone?
What you do is put everything out there
And see what happens

She gets up from her seat
With her glass in hand
And turns on the TV
Some reality show she likes
The ultimate banality
I join her
She sits on my lap and calls me daddy
I like that
I cup my hand to her ass
And we remain like that
Until I finally get up
Grab the remote
And change the channel
“Heeeeyyyy…”

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