UNTITLED: poems by James Letter
Time mingled with time in an abstract form,
Friday became monday and monday became Wednesday
A messiness of events and order,
Arbitrary speculation of the current hour,
Confused zombified souls walking
With no destination, On a phone call with their sick mother;
All so surreal,
Sense became fiction while fact became sin,
Happiness became laughable
And bodies became thin.
People sought to win
This game, this fight, this battle,
Bleeding crimson as they attempted to flex
Their latest pointless imaginative cattle,
O, how I wanted to cast a hex
On these fools, these unspectacular giants
Cloaking their insecurities,
My mind equalled extreme vex -
A shrine of anger culminating,
Roof of my brain,
Fire in my loins,
I despise it
Yet I live.
Before me, this succulent homosapien lay naked in waste,
Beckoning with a syringe as I salivate toothpaste.
It was now mine; essence had superseded fashion,
Clocktower ringing, children dancing in frenzied passion.
Halt - who goes there. Heart lurching into trachea
Fermenting crimson, emotions cloaked in fear,
It is but I, the traveller, I responded, relaxed
With my legs crossed, my subject unwaxed
And no response. What luck had I,
My lack of conscience deeming me wry.
I leapt forward upon my prey, coats and daggers
Floated in my peripheral, however I was focused on this haggard
Excuse for a being, fetal position, legs curled,
Head buried in chest, captured by this nether world,
Gushes of urine from a boat tipping onto his chest
Coating him in dark yellow as my breathing was oppressed,
My own pot of milk apparating into my clasp
I swore I could make out a somewhat gasp
From the lifeless form spread-eagle at my mercy, I
n this room, alone, free from controversy.
And so I drowned him, bathed him, he was now mine
Under duress, strict control, he was my external enzyme,
Coated in off-white, dripping semen-like substance
Clocktower rang louder, disdainfully,
I had committed sin. This was not to be touched, a lowly display exhibit
Containing the powers of that orange pin,
Represent my father you unceremonious ribbit
A woman atop my shoulders. Where was the ethics in this brown act
Sludge turning into cat and mouse horseplay as I
Masticate and concentrate - I need to clean this life form.
Cloth and rag in my hand I rubbed and strained Yet in futility; this was forever stained.
A heinous act; an abomination;
Sweat on forehead entered stage condensation,
A smirk on the face of Hades, congratulatory,
This was to be a forever untold story.
James Letter is a 19 year old writer who reads philosophy and sociology at the University of Leeds. He enjoys spare time researching the theatre of the absurd, writing short, nonsensical plays, playing piano and drinking more than a recommended amount.