Poetry by James Quinton

your cock isn’t special

i read
your derivative
sexist shit
in
horror
yes, Bukowski
was great
and Miller was
a
mischievous
bastard
but it’s
all been
said now

your
cock isn’t
special

and what
you imagine
you do with
it isn’t
interesting

when something’s dead its died

walls are wet, a
white fur grows, corroding
wires, slugs
leave a glistening silver trail
over cheap carpets, cobwebs
hang from ceilings, as
spiders watch on, windows
rattle in their frames, a
freezing breeze enters from gaps
around the front door, everything
smells of damp, we
cough on dust, cleaning
in vain, chemicals
don’t work, bricks
crumbling, turning
to powder when touched, when
something’s dead its died

street psalms

the late night streets
alive with beauty and wonder
enough splendour to charm
snakes from their baskets

we ramble under
neon lit glory that lights
our way through
the concrete jungle

cars pass with stereos
blaring out the latest
in vogue sounds
attracting excited
screams from
scantly-clad party girls

vagrants beckon for our
attention and we stop
to give what we can:
a few cigarettes and loose change

the pubs, bars and clubs
embrace us and we feel
animated; electrified

for a few hours we’re
away from the working world:
the factories, the banks, the shops
the delivery jobs and the dole
tonight, no one will sleep

A collection of poetry and a novel is forthcoming from James Quinton. He has had a myriad of short fiction and poetry published worldwide and is Managing Editor of the much vaunted Open Wide Magazine.

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3 responses to “Poetry by James Quinton

  1. I’ve never read such vibrant works. Very impressed and the site is great too.

  2. Good down-to-earth realism. Rare to find this expressed like you have done.

  3. more great stuff.. how’s ow books coimn’ along?

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