The Reader

She read many books,
there were few she did not like - 
for six years they burned.

 Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin

The Shortcut (Keep Off the Grass!)

Excuse me son, you can't walk there,
It's strictly out of bounds.
Please come back here, there's a good lad
Just turn yourself around.
What were you thinking, can't you read?
'Keep Off the Grass' it says.
It's not that hard, should I worry?
You alright in the head?

I'm sorry mate, I really am,
I clearly missed that fact,
I thought this was the way to go
Though I'm quite high on crack....
I'll take the longer way around
I'm really not that fussed
As long as I'm there just in time
To catch me final bus.

Alright there love, where you off to?
You can't just wander here,
That aint a public bridleway,
So get your self back here!
You brainless girl, there's clearly many
Signs that say 'Please Stop' -
Am I the only one around
Whose lights are on up top?

What is the problem, honestly
It's just a patch of grass?
I walk real quick, don't worry mate
Just loosen up your arse!
It won't get damaged, Jesus Christ
You'll barely know I've been.
It's such a wicked shortcut
And I'm really fucking keen!

Oi over there, listen, get back
I'm watching you darling
This aint your private prominade
...and pack that spitting in!
I'm sure you're far too busy
To notice your mistake
Come listen here, don't make me shout
(I'm getting a headache...)

Oh my god, I so cannot
Believe you just said that!
I'm so aint doing nuffing wrong
You massive, massive twat!
I'm well telling all of my mates
That you're a right pervert
I bet it's coz you wanna stick
Your fingers up my skirt!

Stop where you are, don't move an inch
You gone too far my friend
The rules aint written for you
To just, at your leisure, bend
What did you think? Did you intend
To get across real quick
Before I'd even noticed - well tough luck
(...you little prick).

Jesus man, what's got your beef?
I'm fucking walking here!
So what if it says 'back up bitch'
Ain't noones bitch, you hear?!
So jog on mate, I'm on my way,
Aint nothing you can do,
Unless you want some beatings
From my proper well 'ard crew!

I really wonder why I stand
And take this everyday.
You'd get less grief on the front lines;
I'm off, sod this I say.
I'm jacking in, I need a change,
So stuff the little gits,
Let them take that shortcut there,
I couldn't give two shits

In all fairness the only loss
Is slightly flatter grass,
So your job, frankly, Mr Boss -
Go cram it up your arse.

 Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin

 

Four Floors

Her face was peppered with white powder,
The prouder part of her slender frame
Lay still, a weary head on a pillow
By an open window four floors away.
Eyes of glass catch hazed reflections
From the direction of London lamps
Lighting themselves one by one,
But she does not smile at their amber gleam
Whilst the seams of her soul come undone.

Vague melt solidifies natures crime scene.
Unheard screams echo through empty streets
And disperse amongst absent crowds,
The watershed of their witness long past.
Her mould cast in contorted limbs,
Thin bones buckled in defeat
Rise up to breach a weakened shell;
It splits in parts and dashes her contents
Across the immaculate canvas.

Her hair coiled into tight twirls,
Billows and unfurls in a fashionable way
And tickles her almond dipped skin;
She is still lukewarm within it.
Arms in dissaray clench absent railings,
Their flailing sealed fast against the frost,
Partly lost against the fresher dusting,
Their trusting gape embracing nothing more
Than the floor that does not grasp back.

Arctic air dances with the sequined dignity
Now slowly slipping from her back.
The cause of her silence tracks down her neck
Into rockpools of cracked liquid almandine;
Corruption in sanguine against velveteen flesh
Enmeshes with all that she was.
As her decency begins to rapidly fold,
The city as old as the river that bore it
Throws a desperate brume for her pity.

White facades shudder in the prolonged night
Iniquitously enveloping the dim scene.
The ironic beams of their iron balconies,
Open falconries of birds that could never fly;
Four floors beneath they lie shattered,
The tattered remains of their short lives
Scattered for those left behind to uncover,
A mere puzzle whose many pieces,
Fit together no more.

Depraved pavements shoulder another layer,
The willing slayer, its slain rests awkward,
Her frigid body alludes no more life
Lying jacknifed in her concluding pose.
Unable to make a final amend, ending
Not on a reminisce of a remarkable course
But a nameless remorse, abrupt and unsolved
Condemning an unsettled soul to history,
In a finale four floors long.

Copyright © 2014 by Simon Austin