Three Poems by James D Quinton

hell is other people

I find that nothing

ever gets beyond

anticipation

missing the freedom

of childhood,

the relinquishment

of responsibility

honesty dissolves

into telephone lies

nodding and smiling

nothing to say

blank blue eyes

three chord songs

blisters on my fingertips

hibernating in summer

fear of traffic jams

and exchanges

hopes and dreams of a young girl lost

daddy and mummy

must be proud,

twenty-something year old

daughter on late night telly

humping and grinding

in bra and panties

fake tanned flesh exposed

thrusting wildly at the camera

beauty lost

enhanced, airbrushed

disfigured with products and surgery

on explicit pictures

that can be sent to my phone

selling herself

(sigh)

it’s all in an evening’s work

I’m fascinated, not titillated

she gyrates, gestures

sound off, she talks

she shakes,

pulls at her body,

contorts her face

pretends she’s being…

trying to make herself alluring

waving a nokia

trying to get me to phone

£2 a minute and

£1.50 connection fee

and I want to call

and tell her about

Jesus, Gandhi

about another way, the light

about recapturing innocence

when the mike comes on

I’m surprised

her voice eloquent

she tells me what’s on offer

what the other girls are up to

signing off with

‘naughty kisses’

I look into her eyes,

I think I see sadness

I wonder what her

seven year old self

would say

if she where to see

her hopes

and dreams

lost

when love turns pornographic

rare, banished in the literati

the simplest language communicates

the most complicated feelings

slogans, red paint, brick walls

blood stains white cloth