HeartBreak Hotel: A special page for poems on heartbreak
ShitShort Poems: Short form, to the point.
POEMS
Poems submitted by our contributors
Summer 2022: ND Stinky, Smelly, Fishy Dick Stinky, smelly, fishy dick, Had a wank last night and it was shit Turned on porn, Felt too much guilt, Then I came, My cum like silt, And then I lay, flat In my bed, Thoughts of them, Running through my head, Whilst a well formed, Collected in my naval, I stared at it longingly, Oh, how the turn tables, Of all the things I could have been, We should have been, I kept staring, The idle thoughts, Turned to guilt again, The well overflowed, To the sheets below, I kept staring, Letting the doom flow, Then I picked up a sock, I mopped up my slop, Three-pointer to the corner, And into slumber I dropped.
Jan 2023: ND October to March A depressing dreary isle, Where pervading grey stifles smiles, 6 months of each year, Spent yearning for the next cycle to draw near, Slight peaks of sustaining sun, Venture out, Not long enough for some, As the darkness creeps ever quicker, Pavement stones slippier and slippier, As bare trees bare down, As their discharge coagulates on the ground, And we trudge, Through mud, As we're pelted, not with water but by slurry and sludge, Brief moments of respite, In public houses with dimmed lights, As we huddle together, Yearning for the night to come, As we wait for they grey to be gone, To be replaced by night, Which offers us a moments peace, When this dreary isle comes alive, And frowns turn upside down, And the dimmed lights of the public houses, Become beacons to the massses, Where we can all drown our sorrows, Forget about a grey tomorrow, And bask in our collective grump, Escape for a moment in a pint of mulch, And as the cold bites, Each pint and the company which accompanies them warms your soul, Just for a moment... And then, We trudge back, In our waterproof sacks, Through sludge slurry and mulch, To our damp brick hovels, Where we can’t even turn on the fucking heating.
Summer 2015: WP What would you do if it were silent? What would you do if it were silent? Would you be in the city streets? Would you sleep in the city that's fallen into an eternal sleep? The city that never slept is now quiet, yet kept in its guild and prowess. What's left is a picturesque scene of what once was. Yet upon what's wrong, it's what right that disturbs you most. Still. This city once fell host to hoards of advertising boards, lords and bored chords, friends and pens, men and women with so much life, so many lives but where are they gone? Why, are they gone? As your rhythmless footsteps create the only sound around, you consider what else has abandoned this town. No desire, no dignity, no one to inspire and no divinity. I'm not a religious man but I envied those who believed. Yet it is but another thing I am unable to retrieve. But to leave and where to go? To breathe deep and let go. To write prose and sleep. Our position is advantageous and our path grows ever prosperous. Our arms reach to each and every corner of this world but we struggle to grasp. To clutch at the straws of something we have forgotten. How rotten? As I awake from my daydream I am taken a back by the crowds. This city is not asleep, it is very much awake but it is tired. Worn and run down by these clowns who consider us without soul. As a matter of fact I see no face, not a single face in this place I call my home. My rhythmless footsteps are drowned amongst the frowns and my spirit is pulled down. Standing still in the busy street I freeze. No one sees. No one feels. Not a single person turns their head or perks their ear in concern. An old friend once asked me, what would you do if it were silent? I guess my reply would be...