Friday, May 2, 2014

A Doll I Can Afford to Admire From Afar / A Desperado in Suburbia / La Douleur Exquise / I Have a Problem


 Christopher P. P. White is a poet that explores every facet of this mortal coil with a mind doused in cynicism and hope. He lives in Derby, England with his wife and two daughters, with dreams of writing for a living because he can't do anything else. He already has two poetry collections out there called 'The Bare Bones of a Melancholy Life' and 'Higher Powers and Moments of Weakness' and hopes that you'll hunt them down and read them until your full of joy and pain.


A Doll I Can Afford to Admire From Afar

 This music transports me to a noir America
With sin deep in its heart
And dirty brown liquor in its mile long veins.
And at the front—
Centre stage
Is her,
The feather and sugar of a time I was
Too unborn to live in.
At least I’ve got this record and these
Eyes
And these fantastic ears.
I will put her on when my throbbing addiction
Can’t go on without her.
She’ll sing for hours and I’ll hear her puppy dog confession
And I’ll see those puppy dog eyes
And I’ll probably have a stroke
From the beauty I can’t afford to live without
Or the dirty brown liquor
Or even the soft blood red lips
And the innocent white flowing dress
That the doll I admire wears
During the performance of a lifetime;
God bless America and its vices.



A Desperado in Suburbia

I am surrounded by drawn curtains,
Roaches in an ashtray,
Bottles of high-percentage spirits, boxes of uneaten chocolate
And nobody else in site.
The roaming conundrum of a single life
Is answered with a simple scout
Around this magical room
And all this pleasure paraphernalia—
Enough weed, whisky and women on film
To cure the most damaged man.

The life of a desperado in suburbia;
Eat alone.
Sleep alone.
There must me more buzzards
And romance-barren barflies
Living in a broken fantasia Graceland—
Enduring company in the day and begging to break away
From reality,
Scuttling towards the shadows
And imagining what the blissful loneliness
Of solitude holds in its grasp,
In preparation for a night of low-budget porn
And marijuana daydreams.

No more pleasantries needed;
Primitive responses to all of these vices
And orgasms of inconceivable elation
Are heading to the early hours
With me in first class—
Genitals and joints and gin in hand.
We don't need a reason.
We don't want an excuse.
We are firecrackers on a mundane November 5th;
Watch all the lovers fizzle out
As we crackle and return to the astronomy
Blueprint that makes up our skies.

The life of a desperado in suburbia
Wasn't a prison sentence.
It was more of a collection of lines
In a story that never should have ended.
I still have the scars imprinted in my past
But I've given up
Using the antiseptic cream on them.
I'd rather let them heal as slow
As humanly possible—
There is nothing wrong with romancing
The times we resented before
We knew how precious they were. 


La Douleur Exquise

And the doves fell from their branches;
The tips of the arrows rusted
And cupid turned the gun on himself.
We are not supposed to fall in love
With torturous beauty—
The Gods will make sure of this.


I Have a Problem

I just can't help myself.
I know that her pussy is under
That pencil skirt,
Trimmed and pure
And slightly clammy,
But I just have to sit here
And listen to her explain
The benefits of depositing
My money into saving accounts
Or investments.
All I can think about is
Investing time in depositing
Something of mine
Inside her.
Fucking hell—
I have a problem.




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