poetry critical

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Visiting Hour

Passed frosted glass,
down endless corridor,
floor absorbs another me
keeping perfect pace  
among the click of heels
dodging trolly wheels.
X-Ray left, ante natal right,
Dead mens room of doom,
sanitised,straight ahead.
Prostrate bodies scattered
like black confetti among funerals,
clutch white coats,
flapping like hi jacked ghosts,
sought by dying souls,
while outside the vibrantly spinning world
hurtles on its way.
I avoid the pitiful gazes
of those who know they will never
go that way again.
One hour later I am free,
gasp in a lungful of fume filled air,
such a sweet taste. A  wasted man
who cannot, wearily leans one inch
out from a wheel chair towards a cigarette.
Fettered, his open mouth speaks,
but I am gone, fleeing back where I belong,
among distant lights of my rainbow day.

4 Jul 10

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nice, the horrors of the hospital.

i love line 20 and 21. how sweet the diesel air after the antiseptic poison of the death factory.

there are a lot of words i would change here but only for personal preferrence and nothing more. it flowed and i was not distracted whilst reading. thumbs up.
 — raskolniikov

Cheers raskolnikov, you have made my evening. Why do so many of the dudes on here have such complicated to remember stage names. Its all very theatrical but i prefer the simple Lark.

Larry simple Lark
 — larrylark

this gave me goosebumps
 — psychofemale

I find a woolly sweater helps
 — larrylark

'Ey up Sarcy Larky.

This is a nice reality check, moments before I was climbing the walls for lack of inebriation, shortly after accusing the nation of being ignorant. The bliss is sometimes too easy to fall into and thank you for reminding me of that.
 — Squibble

We all have to be on our guard my dear squibbles for the grim reaper may be lurking at the bottom of the very next libation

Larry who cares? Lark
 — larrylark