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Poems by Mike Kemp

She was

I can remember her now
She claimed her name
Was Rosie
A weird
Smacked out
Burnt up
Who lurked like a
Constant shadow
And a too sad reminder
Of the worlds sickness
The fag perpetually
Hanging from her lipsHer semen stained
Charity shop dress
Hugging her frail
Bones and
Old flesh close
As she ranted and yelled
At the passing suburbanite
Cars too afraid
Or too cheap
to stop for her
Her beating on the
Door of one of my neighbours
Bashing and blasting
The door from its frame
It turns out
She hadn’t paid her
Dues and the local dealers
Came for her with their
Guns and their
Knives and their
Snarls of rage
She woke me up
With her banging and yelling
I cursed her
And never saw her
On her familiar street corner

urban romeo

looking back
at the streets I once knew
the slivering
concrete arms
of a past
dead lover
I miss it in my own
mad way
I miss the constant threat
of death
or rape
or worse
the living death
the wild dogs too tired and hot
to bark or fight
or move
even when the fleas
bit deep
the stars were brighter
the whores all knew me by name
and the world left me alone
to my drink
and my silence
and my desperation
I’ll never forget it as
the place I put the pen
down only tired
and too exhausted to fight
I picked it up
trying to find my voice again
trying to get back to the
arms of the dead lover

Days of wine and sorrow

Looking back
through the years
at what I was
and what I am
I am still
I’m around at all
what with the
complete emptiness of it
the loneliness
and no nothing knowledge
I had in abundance
now all I have is my wine
my memories
and my sorrow
but sometimes
like now
it’s enough

moon, pain and pool of blood

the streets are paved with pain and grey
drizzle and the neon flickers and glares
the moon gazes down silent hulk
and cars drip through the lights
the drink and the women never
really help that much
as the cats mewl and fight
and the young men beat
the old men and the concrete
embraces the pools of blood
and I watch
like I always watch
and try to tell the truth
but the moon keeps on staring
and the streets stay paved with grey
blood and pain
so I drink and look
for help that never comes
and never will

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Biographical sketch: Born, living, not quite dead yet

Mike Kemp recommends:

Flowers of Evil by Baudelaire

Reason: Because Baudelaire wrote like an alcoholic but wasn't

Recommendations for writers:

Nothing, cunt, money, fame, your mother in the nude, choruses of angels, crack adiict whores, rats, politicians, leprous scabs, teenage idols, pills, white picket fences, flea circuses, your buddy Death, jam jars, epileptic seals, circus freaks, anal sex, crime lords, beggering the pope, reality


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