6 May 2009

Poesie Rider - depression poem!

Sorry for the slack posting, I've been so busy recently post-break up. I'm trying out a new 'medication' and it's not sitting well with the booze - down to two glasses a day, but it's still too much! But rather than spending the cold hours looking at my nice new curtains, I've decided to sublimate my angst writing poetry. Like all poetry that issues from transient sadness, I think you'll agree, it's pretty damn affected.

Titles://Untold by Posie Rider

Piles of the unsullied window pane

Gasp at the eternal.

Leave a mug and its contents to turn

Heat up the offering

Reheat, offer again.

Distance is the point to point

Measurement betwixt the turning

O’ my head t’wards and y’rs

away. A kiss is not a contract

But I am repentant

So no tea for me, even?

Heretic adverse

Dopes of all your canting

Heroes and false

Piles of the inheritance

Duly at her lap

(Why compare us, you can’t

We’re not the same.

Did you hear that? Idiot woman

I know what she means though

Does she?)

I love the bed, the panes

I kissed the church

Bones of the inheritance

Wait by the shutters

Clear the panes


How can I not hear you

I’d rather not

Bones of the inheritance

A hope that dwells in

Letters on the mat

Where two names knot

No longer occupiers

Horror of that

Shutters for remembrance

Cold hands at breakfast

And saying something, how?

By touch?

Hardly, switch off on Tuesdays

Turn out the lights

Shutters on backwards

And where is this ‘Martin’?

How is anyone supposed to feel

If not told precisely.

Like this

Do me a favour

Who is this woman?

What is this, texting?

Be safe with me, I’ve done this before

How long? My goodness

What am I doing?

Saying something, always

Breakfast on Tuesdays

My god this is boring.

Leave me only with a sharp lock

If you must

And leave the shutters on backwards

For the opening

I’ll be doing plenty of that

Brush strokes on the fringe

Idiot woman, all a condolence

Suitcase on railings

Curtains in wrappings

This one, beyond comparison

Better than that

Worst is on Thursdays

Better I damage him

Breast strokes and tanning

Talking at plastic

Reader, I married him

Batter the manikin

Wainscoting canyons

And pleasure the gasman.

Like on Sundays

I kissed the church

Footsteps on the fringe

He ran, I can’t fear his grimaces

Holy water by the door

Canting at soup kitchens

Wedgwood and backstabbing

Listen, why can’t you?

Walking with children

I heart little envelopes

Look at this happening

Becoming less childish

Almighty, sanitary

Yeah listen, I’m talking

Less to be reckoned with

Like breakfasts on Sundays

Zero, very good.


  1. love from the hypoetics crew, who understand what it is to be locked up during a booze crisis


  2. Thanks so much! I went for a walk this morning but only succeeding in buying 20 B&H and dropping my fake Chanel sunnies, cracking the lens. And it's not even sunny. Back to the writing I guess, Sally calls!