My shitty poems

8th March 2017 Paul Chris Jones

This page contains my poems. The newest are at the top and the oldest are at the bottom. Warning: all of them are shit.

Poem inspired by text from various webpages

(written 6 October 2014)

What Is Wist?

Ohmygod, thank you, you wonderful man. I'm so ready to bring it on.

What Is Wistfully?

I asked him if it was too late.
"Too late for what?" he said.
"Too late to start living my life", I replied.
He burst into laughter. "Why, you've been living your life already!" he cried.

Where Is J Wist located?

HAVE YOURSELF A WONDERFUL WEEKEND!

How old is your name?

Ooh I want it

I want them to fill my corpse with candy and drop me from an aeroplane over Disney World.

I don't know if I need it

When will you be old?

Here it comes, the cold, fresh wind. It numbs my fingers. I remember creating worlds from the dirt under my fingernails.

But ooh I gotta find out

I start to cry, and my face screws up, like a baby. I sob and tears run down my face.

Gimme gimme

Bamboo Rain

(written 30 June 2014)

I saw my parents in her eyes
Like rainbows shining in diamonds,
A halloween for every September.
Happy was the day when I finally waved goodbye to that group of thugs
And when I saw my life was over
I began to smile.
This was where the seed was planted,
Where the rivers led,
And the waters laid their heads.
I wanted to see the cuckoos in the tree nests,
The black gnats and the treetop rats.
The lights in my eyes went out
And a fingernail attacked me from behind.

Fly me away

(written 25 Dec 2013)

Take me far away,
Away from this dead-end street
These boring lives.
Fly me away to some other place
Where the concerns here are no concerns of mine.

Away from the trivial arguments,
The Only Way is Essex and old mince pies,
Sky TV and watching life through a screen.
Wasting away my days in a place just because I was born here.

Fly me away
Where I can live the dreams I wanted to.

Arguments

(written 14 Nov 2013)

Arguments are endless,
never finished.

Precious time drips away, as we
swear at each other
and spit and shout out of spite.

The world looks past us, apathetic. it doesn't care
what you think of me, or what I think of you.

We are animals trapped in a cage.
But the gate is always open -
we could run free.

The gap year that never was

(Written 21 Nov 2013)

My Dad once drove me
100 miles
(and back)
for an interview
at a chicken factory.
For 4 hours,
alone and together, in a cramped metal box,
we spoke only of
trivial things
(never EVER talked about loneliness nor sacrifice, death nor depression, even though these
are the dark oceans that unite us).

At the interview were
1) a red-faced woman,
2) an old bird
3) and a young, beautiful Madonna.
Red-faced woman, her hands clasped and raw from disinfectant, asked,
"What do you think a typical day here would be like?"
I replied, "Honestly, I expect it would be quite boring most of the time."
Old bird was surprised, but red-faced woman smiled and nodded enthusiastically.
They put me up
in the finest hotel in Sleaford.

My parents
were reluctant to let their baby boy go.
Being 20, the first thing I did
when I was finally alone in the hotel room
was
have a wank.

Tous les jours,
live chickens went in by the truckload
but none ever came out.
My job
was to look for Salmonella, Staphylococcus, Shigella, Streptococcus
in a little hut they called
a laboratory.

4 weeks after my grand debut
I was fired for being inept.

"You should have made notes," red-faced woman said.
"But I didn't have a notebook," I complained.
"You should have bought a notebook, or just used some of the paper here," she said, like a slap in the balls.

I walked back to my apartment
through fields
and got lost on the way.

I thought of staying
in that lunar, empty town...
without friends,
alone.
The thought both excited
and desolated me.

So my Dad picked me up the next day.
We travelled in silence,
except for when we spoke of things
of no importance.

Die Schmetterlinge

(Written 2012)

In the Hofgarten the air is sweet in the summer.
This is the lake where the sunlight shimmers
as the leaves sway gently in the breeze,
and here is the grand oak tree
where lovers carve initials
and where I told you briefly of my deceased father.
Afterwards, we sat in the shade of the blossom trees
and I performed a serenade on my guitar.
You read from a stolen book of poetry:
Tu illumines mes nuits avec ta beaute rayonnante
As the light faded, die Schmetterlinge danced in the haze
and as we pondered their brief existence
warm rain began to fall and we ran back hand in hand
through strawberry fields
just moonlight guiding our way
we kissed on the patio terrace
and drenched in rain we made love on the roof of the house.

Liebe finden, und halten Sie sie

In Winter we met for the last time at la cafe chat noir
the fresh snow crisp underfoot
You sat outside despite the bitterness of the cold
Inhaling occasionally from a cheap cigarette,
You ordered a strong black coffee but left it untouched,
its rising steam struggling to warm your frozen face.
Glancing at me only briefly, you looked out across the terrace
at the children in the snow.
At midnight I meandered alone along the promenade
Recalling my own childhood:
catching butterflies in strawberry fields
And afraid to let them go.