Three Poems by James D Quinton

hell is other people

I find that nothing
ever gets beyond

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
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

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


Old 333 said...

As long as the white cloth doesn't have one of those embroidered bridal slots in it. those are weird.

Thanks for the poems, Mr. Quinton.


Anonymous said...

Thank you!

C.P.W said...

great stuff.... x


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