Here you can find a selection of Armand’s poetry. If you are looking for a particular poem, you can find it under the drop-down menu under the Poetry tab.
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Armand Hemsley
A thick, strangling air grasps
at the edges of my
flesh, cold and hot to the touch
plaster peels with a precarious
delicacy, carving a swirl
of white and orange
a soft crunch with every step
as the greened beams
crumble and splinter
sharp cracks of
glass frames and
forgotten pictures
brass handles pocked with
brown rust screech a
piercing song
The Nonsense Fruit
Armand Hemsley
Paint can show us a
story. A painter provides
us with a chapter
Dinner time can be
in morning and it can
also be in evening
The butcher’s knife and
hairdressers sculpt history
together as one
Under The Knife
Armand Hemsley
A perfect face
Contoured from the base
To the brow
Faint red-pink lips
Poised for the
Kiss
Neither a pointed edge
Nor a rounded dome
A synthesised nose
A soft welcoming
Glare with a glossy
Gleam of blue
Made to hear
Made to stare
Both sides in symmetry
A small curve
Of pure blonde
Meeting at the crown
Smoothed skin
With invisible pores
Concealing the truth
Best Served Cold
Armand Hemsley
A molten stare
deadlocked
gills settle neatly
on the chilled flesh
a trace of red
oozes from the mouth
wide open, ready to
scoop all life back in
the mottled grey jaws
swallow the harsh
world whole.
Lysergic Acid Diethylamide
Armand Hemsley
A widening pit
a pounding of machinery
a torrent of water rushing through
flames from the deepest pit of hell
a mountain of pleasure stands obsolete
stampeding like a beast
the desert runs dry
thunder shakes the ground
a bird of joy flies over you
then flees
the dark scares you
makes you laugh
Metropolitan
Armand Hemsley
The darkness rots, slowly
like a dead leaf
Towers loom all around
decaying trees
People waiting to commute
patient as a growing cocoon
A blur of moving objects
red as fungus, creeping
Every white light
an insult to the past
Cement setting steadily
clings to your feet like mud
Grey dominates the skyline
common as muck
What We Leave Behind
Armand Hemsley
Wisps of sand
the odd tuft of grass
a crumbled tower where
grey and yellow meet
birds do not soar
nor crickets chirp
light
retreats to its hollow
maimed creatures
husks
rip at the flesh
spit and chew
tear skin
from bone
sour faced
consume all.