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designbyjustine · 5 months

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SH

A poem by Justine Polkinghorne

...

SHE was picked up with the mail. Stuffed in like junk, unwanted property promo's and fifty percent-off sales, riding high between Page 3 girls and the end of the Weekender. Long, tan legs splayed. Hair wild, undone. Brushed hard.

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HER skin shouted silence. Was stripped of the pretty dress up little kitten heels. No fancy knickers or plain. (But there had never been any anyway).

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SHE lies confined in a small, rectangular box. Bound tight by white plastic ties. Still, lips smile. He will come.

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HER eyes, lashed wide and shut play candy-coated reflections of a wingless mirror on display. They speak of an owned disarray. Of a silent body, outlined in paint. wearing bright shade.

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SHE is bought, held and disrobed, again and again without boundary or consent. Made to sit, accessorise, bend into position.

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HER — shiny and worn a witness, now an accessory torn, throws herself in the bin after taking photos for evidence and hurries home. 'Cause you never know, could end up in a dark box yourself. Eight percent of people living in cities are serial killers. That’s what Ken said.

…

SHE screams and rips HERself out of the box.

#poetry #poet #writing #prose #creativewriting #creative #verse #designbyjustine #justinepolkinghorne

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designbyjustine · 2 years

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The Outside Waiter

A poem by Justine Polkinghorne

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Aah! It bites in an open sky vault serving

cold mutton chops with pinches of jitter.

Garçon! Still, the waiter dishes up little,

staying inside his designated space — coming

only if beckoned, cajoled. Scarcely seated

outside, waiting panic rises and shocks like buckshot

— opening crowd-wide little fear holes

terror holds soon shall be terminal. The

right time I’d thought it was for phobic parole,

but my bloody bonce left familiar

metallic meat-tang tastings and as alfresco

agitated angst quickens, I briskly judge it severe

enough to leave leavings, trembling in a rush

to get home to shell shock, shuttered, cinder block

protection, where I escape sky-falling chicken-little-

heartedness with reheatable doggie treats,

hide under a mattress and, strip five ribs and four finger-

bones bare in an empty bathtub where ebbing

open discomposure keeps drowning kittens. My

skull scolds after-dinner seconds. How could

I again show prison pant-sweat wetness, be

bitterly exposed to vicious hostage elements like a

purple peacock pair of unzipped trousers? Will

I ever eat out? Can I? Can I?

Ahh...

...tomorrow let’s give it a bloody good shot.

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designbyjustine · 4 years

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Cider Sue and I

A poem by Justine Polkinghorne

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Throat’s eyes weep.

‘These are not my arms nor my legs. My body is not mine.’

Carve open a door to watch birds pour into a glass and drink.

My throat can’t keep up.

Raw skin lies under beds ice-cold, ridged and white. Polish covering cracks.

‘These are not my arms nor my legs. My body is not mine.’

So I peel back layers, extract tissue, probe deep.

‘These are not my arms nor my legs. My body is not mine.’

Pry off each nail, break daisy chains to hear a snap. Measure and evaluate.

‘These are not my arms nor my legs. My body is not mine.’

Fondle flesh folds of grey matters, then lobotomise them.

‘These are not my arms nor my legs. My body is not mine.’

Crush cider into a jar and swirl to swallow what she sees, taste what she thinks, feel what I cannot.

But these are not my arms nor my legs.

Her body is not mine.

#poetry #poet #writing #prose #creativewriting #creative #verse #designbyjustine #justinepolkinghorne #suicide #suicideprevention #suicideawareness #worldsuicidepreventionday

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designbyjustine · 4 years

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Domesticity

A poem by Justine Polkinghorne

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Wifey, you are full of time and notions flying around and around… around and around… I want to swat you off shirt tails into non-existence. Your noise irritates my house.

Stepford Wife, your Venus is wide open. Caught, beneath clean apron strings forbidden lust is no longer your bargaining chip.

Wiggy-waggering Gibby-gabbering I settle and watch as you wine, regurgitate and suck on society’s feast leavings. Revenge dishes served cold.

Drone on bitch. I have you, you will never fly. My poison will keep you gathering dust on my sill.

God, your waspishness wearies me. Piercing with your labium when you should be on your back, legs grabbing air entangled missionary lies. So I hit you and you fall.

In alimony regret I pick you up, sweep you upright, outside on the step hoping for a quick recovery, but receive compound diamonds wet with acrimony.

Fly away wifey, with tickle flesh wounds Fly away fly, fly fast, somewhere soon.

Why-Fly You are my tailor, a prison-guard, a… watcher of all I do. I don’t know if I should, but I do…

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designbyjustine · 4 years

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Privacy of a Girl’s Online Diary

A poem by Justine Polkinghorne

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designbyjustine · 4 years

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6/08/2018

We used to ride the waves together in silent debate when radio was his communication of choice. Now Maxwell sits at my table eating air with a fork. He smiles at my dissertations and makes shapes behind heads I try to ignore.