New poems by Christopher Barnes.

 

A Good Execution?

 

The turnkey hoists the humdrum

To excessive points of vigilance. Pure white socks

Tremble with milliampers –

He quits dilemma’s horns

For almost fathomless dilly-dallying.

 

You’re not unique, a somebody

Blindfolded in dark.

At the extreme’s terminal fix,

Perched, tightened in this guilt-cell shaker –

Hang on for stone-dead volts to flash.

 

 

 

Amy Winehouse

 

You’re one of the co-dependant divas

Who sorrow-seek in HMV racks

Thumb-twiddling to be played again.

 

Fluffs, expleting at the crowd,

Underneath sneers

You bail out to the wings.

 

Nose-diving, impulsive ambivalent,

Hawking at ticket buyers,

Throat cutting mood flaps

At Island Studio.

 

Blood-doused, bumped

By Camden flashlight.

Stilettoless in bra, denims.

 

It’s the doormat

Soft-spots you overall.

No tornadoed fettle

To be televised.

 

 

 

Rula Lenska

 

Hey Countess

You stump up your bloodline

For the sick

Blue as a Vistula lunar tide.

 

Buddhism, Botox? Self-importance

Unclotting – no sirree;

Hair flames go to wishy-washy ash

Overwhelmed by an Alberto VO5 hose.

 

Does that deep-sunk burr

Loom when you sky-rove

A balloon?

 

And will Chelsea stargazing swirl

As it it’s ’68 for Biba-Nova?

 

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