It’s raining blood on a Bleaker Street bedlam.
Nothing but dead horses, broken carts.
Every phone box has become a mad motel,
for the gin soaked, screaming hearts.
There's not a taxicab left in Palookaville,
and a trumpet mutes out sad news.
Of the kebab-stabbed boy, who went raving mad,
since ol' ruby sucked on his blues.
Christ! Her betrayal has left him drowning,
as her dirty bed paddles the beast.
He’ll cling on forever to this murder of love.
She was his famine before her feast.
Now, maybe he’ll get a tattoo.
A red rose by any other crime.
He’ll hide it right up there on his shoulder blade,
and let it weep from time to time.
Comments
john_silver | September 4, 2008 - 20:12
"since ol' ruby sucked on his blues" is a bit obscure to me. Generally speaking the imagery is excellent, however you could do with brushing up your metre a little. The text spins all over through iambs, trochees and anapests and sometimes between tetrametre and trimetre. While it's not ineffective as it is, I think a smoother rhythm would result in a smoother read.
Good stuff anyway.
Nathan Bednarek | September 5, 2008 - 12:24
Yes I agree with John. The poem is very good and it gives the reader something to think about, but a more inventive rhythm usually helps to lean against the reader's emotions and the piece simply ends up even more effective. Overall, I like the idea and imagery of the poem.
Nathan.
ralph | September 5, 2008 - 14:11
Thanks chaps.
Points taken and I have edited again.
As we all know, that is a tricky biz. Killing your darlings etc. Sometimes you can take away too much and leave it barren.
Be interested in what you think.
Thanks again.
Ralph