Katie Kelly Poet

Poem 22) Cinema

22) Cinema
Janet, took her left hand and placed it on her boyfriend Neil’s, right knee.
Her fingers rose delicately up his thigh and further towards his now bulging penis.
She continued to stroke him, teasingly and seductively.
Her eyes gazed away from the cinema screen and she looked to her left to see Neil’s satisfied face.
But it wasn’t Neil.
It was another man she was groping.

In a panic she flailed away her hand from this stranger’s bulge, turned her head to the right and saw Neil, her boyfriend, fixated on the movie being screened, stuffing another handful of sweet popcorn into his wide mouth.
Janet turned her facial direction to the film, staring wide eyed at the moving images, completely embarrassed and ashamed of her stupid mistake.

Dance Me To Death (Lyrics)

Below are the poetical lyrics to one of my earlier audio videos, from the chapter; TV Trauma.

Dance Me To Death

Verse One
Foxtrot, Tango, cha-cha-cha,
If you trip over, i’ll ha-ha-ha,
Jazz, Ballet, Flamenco, Tap,
I’ll be at home shouting, “You’re bloody crap!”
Charleston, Jive, Disco, Rumba,
I can see my I.Q. fall down in number,
Barn, Belly, Swing, Street,
How I want to cut off your feet,
Folk, Latin, Modern too,
Dirty Dancing, I hate you.

Verse Two
On television it is always there,
Strictly Come Dancing,
Makes me pull out my hair,
Z-list celebrities, given the chance,
To prance about like idiots on,
So You Think You Can Dance,
I don’t hate dancing, it’s not a lie,
But there are far too many,
Like “Just Dance” on Sky,
So please producers, stop putting them on TV,
Or dancing shows, will be the death of me.

Verse Three
Country and western, abstract art,
I have an urge to pull your limbs apart,
Hip-hop, be-bop, wire flying grace,
God, I want to smash in your face,
Bolero, Can-can, limbo low,
Salsa, Samba, quick-quick-slow,
Moonwalk, Polka, shuffle and slide,
I need to escape from this waltzing ride,
Turn to the left, bow and say goodnight,
Now go and fuck off, along stage right.

Verse Four
Programming I watch gets me all flared,
Dance acts on Britain’s Got Talent,
Make me horrifically scared,
More Z-list celebrities given a slice,
Skating like morons whilst,
Dancing On Ice,
I don’t hate dancing, I pray to thee,
But there are just far too many,
Like “Dancing On Wheels” on BBC3,
So please stop producing this shit on TV,
Or dancing shows will be the death of me.

copyright Katie Kelly 2010

Poem 24) Proposal

24) Proposal
“Marry me!”
Tina blurted out to Robert.
“I can’t.”
He sympathetically replied, his eyes, averting towards the red carpet.
“Why not?’
Tina asked, tears trickling towards her quivering, ruby lips.
“Because I don’t even know who you are.”
Robert answered and he casually walked away from the tearful Tina and continued to greet his other fans at the BAFTAS.

London Underground

I didn’t know where to look.  Straight away, my eyes averted towards the floor, covered with a multitude of patterns, slowly metamorphosing into faces, that could easily scare a young child at night.

My hypnotic gaze of the mutated floor faces broke, when I blinked and noted the shoes being worn, including mine, comparing the size, shine and shimmer, as the artificial light bounced off the leather, but not of those with canvas.

My eyes continues to rise (due to my neck aching from it’s downwards position) and I couldn’t help but take a quick glace at an open display of bulge or evident cleavage, of those sitting opposite me.

My eyes drifted upwards, trying to avoid direct contact with the eyes in the face of the person directly opposite me.

My head fell back as I decided my only option of being entertained for a few minutes (due to not finding a spare Metro®) was to read the advertising posters, for international phones calls, Sky TV®, vitamins and other brief snippets of information that no one is really that interested in pursuing.

After reading the posters, I looked up at the map.  Confusing lines of different colours, reading each name of a station and counting how many more stops I had left, before my final destination.

My eyes darted towards the window opposite me, each time a station would magically appear from within the darkened tunnel. Eyes flashing from left to right, right to left and so on, as my attempt to view the large advertised entertainment posters, would rush on past me.

Looking to my left (or right) as the doors electronically parted from each other, a rush of commuters got off and on, with the constant well heard call of;  

“Please mind the gap, between the edge of the train, to the platform.”

The authorised words of;
“This train is ready to depart, please keep clear of the closing doors.”                              

Is followed by the warning wails of;
“Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.”

And the doors slide shut, tightly sealed, trapping all those inside it’s carriage. Sitting standing, leaning, lurching as the train began it’s descent to its next destination, only but a  few minutes away ( but all agreed that it’s far quicker than travelling above ground.)

My eyelids started getting heavy, I closed them for a while,  reopening them each time the train would halt at each station, repeating it’s continuous working process and I recounted how many stations I was away from. 

Unfortunately, due to me writing down in real time, I had bloody missed my stop and had to get off at the next one, to travel on the southbound line, to go back to my correct destination and then… relief, above the ground, in the loud, London environment.