Organic Steak

Firm steady grasp, I pulled the trigger. Proud and shaking from this first stun. The bolt punched hard at the confused bovine’s thick meat and skull. Dopamine rush from power. It’s a man’s job this; the provider, the killer. I’m the modern hunter in my murder house. Pupils dilate, silent screams from its desperate dying mouth. Just reflexes. Much too dumb to feel. Electrical impulses explode through this soon to be cadaver as it collapses. An almost dead weight thuds to the opening side of the cold steel box. Sticked, skinned, and disembowelled. High welfare organic steaks. It’s BBQ season.

© Natasha Sinclair

Game boy

I wish I had a touch of you.
Your swagger, your play.
The sense to stay away.
A fraction of your zingy zest.
Never put those dreams to rest.
Slick, street and charm.
Even nullifying the alarm.
Player boy, fake plastic toy.
Playing the loyalty game.
Making them insane.
Lost words and lyrics.
Legendary mimics.
Nothing real to add to the wheel.
Round and round.
Pound to the pound.
Replaying the old sound.
New spunk and old funk.
Taking the heat in every re-beat.
Corpse warming ‘til the harsh light of mourning.
You should’ve come with a fucking warning.

© Natasha Sinclair

New Order Disorder

Stuck in the mud; the heart is a-thud.

Another dud.

The tightening throat; tangled in knots.

Edit, revise, delete, repeat.

Sticking in loops; nauseating mud soup.

Shattered mind in broken tongue; where had it all begun?

Shards slashing on the way down.

Dead letters nestling in; stinging nettles grow within.

Type again, reply, no don’t…

Wait, that’s wrong!

Too much? Too little? Too dam late!

Let it go…

Letters in the grave; need to be ‘brave.’

Stick a label on it; Depression

Change the address.

Oodles of mess; time eclipsed by so much ‘missed.’

Misrepresented, mistimed, misdiagnosis, misunderstood, missed.

Return to sender 30 years later…

Wrong label, here’s a new one; ASD

New order from the so-called Disorder.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, all rights reserved.

Out of Colour

She was so incredibly vibrant, effervescent even. Life cascaded over her and she soaked it up; osmosis from grey to all illuminating colour.

They couldn’t know of the tortured girl hiding behind long straggly hair in the corner depths of her soul. Trying not to breathe, holding her head still between her hands and knees; frightened little anchoress within.

She painted the outside with hypnotic kaleidoscopic colour. Energy was electrifying and luminescent. Rich from living, a friend to everyone, my love.

After the years of youth though; too much mayhem and noise, too much of that painted face. Too many troubles to keep buried behind a smile, she ran all out of colour.

I see her try sometimes. Try to paint it on. Her skin only soaks it into the dead grey; cracking, peeling, painful and raw. Hermit grey, only shade in the shadows.

There’s barely any precious life left.

(C) Natasha Sinclair, All rights reserved

Gemma’s Teddy

The breeze wafted through the thick deep orange curtains. Bathing the drab third floor flat. Manky midden air from the rising summer heat mingled with the rising damp of the crumbling tenement walls. A fresh lick of paint only tricked the eyes. Festering rot just beneath that thin surface. Gemma sat in the corner of the living room, face blotchy red in desperate tears. Huddled into her baby wrapped in his pale blue teddy blanket. Dead. Still. Rocking back and forth quietly sobbing; “I just needed you to stop screaming, just for a minute.”

“You can wake up now, Teddy…”

(C) Natasha Sinclair 2019.

Previously published by Writingwriters.net for Drabble #5

Subway

One cannot avoid eye contact when entombed within the old musky tube. Dank, dark. As if being underground wasn’t torture enough. Everything so close. Restricted air flow, foot flow, low flow. All so close to burying you alive. Suffocating amongst concrete, dirt, strangers and metal. Any second it could all cave in and one of them could catch my eye…

© Natasha Sinclair

“Just One More”

Early flight; foreign daze too bright.
Night draws with a bang.
Curtains closed, skirts up.
Old streets buzz with pimps and cheats .
Sex in the air; for a fair fare.
Her tired mouth, his wallet.
A classy bar, a sleazy toilet.
Part of the play, trip away.
Any old dud feels like a stud.
Pussy on the wind.
Setting up for good grind.
Getting low so you can’t go.
She lays her head to rest.
Holiday urge starts to spread.
He pushed her ‘til she was sunned down.
“Just one more."
Pretends he's not off to score.
Whore behind another door.
Sleepy head all tore with gore.
Slips in hours too late...
Stinking and slick from a professional date.
“Just one more,” he said.
Wet with mixed sweat.
A foreign scent had him spent.
Deceit on the forgotten receipt.
Deceit cheat never sleeps.
It’s always just one more…
Score.

© Natasha Sinclair 2019

Mindless Motions

Those rusty cogs turn, yawning inside that thick skull; a dying hamster on a creaky wheel.
Quietly waiting for the cruel rotations to complete their sedate lap around the globe.
Knowing there’s nothing of use to be churned out; still I wait, always, for you.
Waiting for that spark to catch; only crumbs of life left.
Wondering how much of you is still in there; amongst the rust and fumes.
Once it was astounding, fresh with abundant wonder and curiosity; almost dormant now.
Stuck mindless motionless.
Baby, do you even know your name?
Does such a thing even matter anymore?

© Natasha Sinclair 

Devil between the Lines

Sifting through tatty scrawled notes.
Desperately furious hand; pouring forth perpetual cocktails of mind toxins in blotchy ink.
Heavy watery explosions; dried time.
Tasked to beat the drugs, the sad drab clinics, psychologically challenged specialists.
Yeah, they sure were special all right; paid listeners who couldn’t shut up.
It’s too easy to turn the tables on the professionally needy; care couldn’t care less.
Unfamiliar hand between his own; Did I write that? Did I reply to myself?
Goading himself to take the leap; the devil between the lines, teaser.
The years trickle on; he somehow survived himself…
For how long?

© Natasha Sinclair

Eager Little Pervs

That number rises steady at the corner of the screen; fans, followers, eager little pervs. Patiently waiting. Numbers swell like an erection. Street corner, screen corner, her corner. The anticipation of detached contact. Satisfying, hang-up free but never for free. Alone with the whirring of the machine, lube in hand, the other fingering the board.

Full red lips glossed; they look like they suck good – they do. She’ll do anything here, a feast for the eyes only. Credit Card at the ready, palms sweaty. There’s nothing more stupid than a man with an erection. Stream.

© Natasha Sinclair