UNTITLED: poems by James Letter

1.

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.

2.

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It was now mine; essence had superseded fashion,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

Onto vacuum.

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.

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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.