There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them,
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him naked,
eyes closed while she masturbates.
She wants him to watch her.
She's deathly frightened people will overhear.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking
holding hands until closing time.
One day her bedsit is empty,
she has gone, leaving no note.
On the other side of the city
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
Categories:
bedsit, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Long time since I have been to a nightclub
they don't let me out at night alone now.
I used to be sharp
had many friends in low places.
I miss the culture, the sweaty maneuvers
under hypnotically pulsing lights.
The aroma of nubile sex
and just maybe getting lucky.
Back then, you did not have to be
a minor local celebrity to get laid,
just have cash for a taxi ride
back to your crappy bedsit.
I could still be
a smirky smile under neon lights,
but the feet won't slide no more,
and the bouncers won't let you in
wearing bedroom slippers.
Categories:
bedsit, poetry,
Form: Free verse
will you still be at my side
when my teeth have dropped like rotten apples
and bleeding, shrunken gums form a smile
will you still want me
as my waistline expands
and my belt buckle becomes obscured
will you still need me
when sounds once clear trail away
and I stare like a mad priest to hear.
will you accept me for me
and not wish for a cardboard cut-out
devoid of sensibility and personality
will you remember
that my tea should be weak and sweet
yet my spirit will be strong and sour
and make a note of my romanticism
(if you find it please return)
I’ll forget birthdays and anniversaries for sure.
will you still desire me
when I am old and bent and wizened
cackling politics, inflation, foreigners
when my poems become vicious slogans
venomously scrawled onto bare paper
as I forget my way in our bedsit
as I forget our shopping on the bus
will you still love me
as I slowly turn into dust?
Categories:
bedsit, age, introspection, relationship,
Form: Free verse
The brittle crack of frost on pane
followed the rain, as winter bit and lit
the edge of leaf and hedge with quicksilver white.
As the night supercooled and pooled the lamplight
with halos effervescent, like incandescent lollipops,
atop streetlights of grey, receding lines.
And mist thickened to fog whilst work weary folk
slog through commuter throng on the long
journey through suburbia's blur to bedsit or flat,
or house somewhere.
Shoulders bent against the eve, they weave their
weary way at end of day.
Bleeding out the city and pretty girls habituate bars
or spill into cars and text momma's to expect them late.
Yet others wait at bus stop and underground,
where rumbling sound heralds their arrival,
all vying for survival in this great melting pot of humanity,
their sanity questioned, their reasoning profound
in their undying quest for the British pound.
Categories:
bedsit, business, city, humanity, work,
Form: Free verse
They eff you up, your Mum and Dad,
At least that's what we're told,
All your Dad's genes are hand-me-downs,
Your anger, spawn of old,
It's not your fault you can't fly straight,
it's not your fault you fail.
I'll blame it on my Ma and Pa,
It's the reason I travail,
I've got no money - oh screw you Mum! - Why wasn't I brought up wealthy?
I smoke ten a day - oh screw you Dad! -Feel guilt 'cos I'm not healthy.
I've broke up with my seventh wife, It seems I can't commit,
I no longer see my children, WHY CAN'T YOU DO YOUR BIT?
I sit here in my bedsit, my doorbell never rung,
Nobody wants to speak to me, I was curbed when I was young,
They eff you up, your Mum and Dad, the pain is all their fault,
I blame it on your DNA, the reason I assault.
I loop the rope up to the roof, the noose rests on my knee,
And then a flash of clarity - it wasn't you, it's me!
So sorry Mum, and sorry, Dad, It's my fault that I'm done,
Your better off without me, but I'm glad I was your son.
Categories:
bedsit, death, sad,
Form: I do not know?
There are gaps in the particleboard;
quince wads fill the breaches.
Nicotine newspapers underlay the linoleum.
It's a rented place, he tiptoes
around its yellow layers.
He has a friend he visits on Sunday afternoons.
The walls of her bedsit are paper thin.
She thinks her neighbors scratch on them;
thinks they are writing to her.
She will stand in front of him
naked, eyes closed while they both masturbate.
She wants him to watch her.
She's frightened people will overhear.
This is all the sex she needs; she tells him.
Afterward, they sit side by side
on the small bed reading the tabloids.
Then they walk to a local pub,
sit quietly in a corner, not talking,
holding hands until closing time.
She becomes a missing person.
He scans headlines, obituary columns,
classified ads.
Her parents live in Surrey,
that's all he knows.
On the other side of the city,
he lands a job with a room in a hotel.
He stops looking for her.
His new room is narrow, clean and white.
He stops smoking;
remembers the silence
once shared.
Categories:
bedsit, poetry,
Form: Free verse
Living in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
Watching television, I heard somebody speak
A robot does my cleaning and it does not even smoke
I think I am invisible, I wear a dust grey cloak
Maybe I’m a loser; my bones already creak
Living in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
Noone here can touch me, now maybe they will joke
But my heart is feeling empty and I know I am a freak
A robot does my cleaning and it does not even smoke
The council can’t afford replacements for any mugs I broke
I see a few young people drinking coffee in the street
Weeping in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
If I tried to drown myself no doubt I would just float
When I go to a farm shop, the sheep won’t stop to bleat
A robot does my cleaning and it does not even smoke
I am serving my life sentence, but it seems incomplete
I can only walk ten yards, arthritis in my feet
Living in my bedsit in the tower of the old folk
A robot did my cleaning, the dumb thing never spoke
Share this:
Categories:
bedsit, age, allusion, angst,
Form: Villanelle
Stand down
In his bedsit he sits and waits.
Tears fall as he remembers his mates.
In his bedsit alone and forlorn,
No one notices the curtains undrawn.
In his bedsit,amid the damp and squalor,
He can still hear his sergeants holler.
In his bedsit, he sits and stares,
Remembering the noise amid the flares.
The whistle blew and he saw every man,
Go over the top, into bullets they ran.
He too went into that man made hell,
Seeing his comrades fall under the hail,
Running and crawling in the red mud,
Over the wire he went, fear in his heart,
Seeing friends fall and get blown apart.
How he survived those times he doesn't know,
While thousands died both friend and foe.
But survive he did and at last came home,
To walk down his street feeling so alone.
Many years have passed and age takes it's toll,
No one asks him now, talk of war is so droll.
What did you do in the war? No one cares,
No one remembers the old guy upstairs.
So in his bedsit, he sits and waits alone,
For someone to say " Soldier, here is your crown".
Your orders have come for you to stand down.
© Dave Timperley in Remembrance of War, 2018
Categories:
bedsit, conflict, courage, remembrance day,
Form: Rhyme
On the street corner she stands
So scantly clad
A lady of the night
Her background so sad
From a broken family
Abandoned and lost
She grew up on the streets
No matter her cost
The only man in her life
Is her mentor and pimp
Her collector of fee's
Where he makes his mint
There is no care
For her or others
If they ever complain
It's oxygen smother
To a bedsit she retires
As her business unfolds
Another stat on the bedpost
In another unloving hold
Soiled and used
Once again
If we could see in her heart
Could we ease her pain
The door closes
As she heads back to the streets
The patch where she walks
Where her clients, she meets
Another night over
As she turns in for the night
While he counts his money
From this lady of the night
http://www.thehighlanderspoems.com/life-5.php
Categories:
bedsit, life, people, places, sad,
Form: Rhyme