The air was raw with sirens
Along with the melodrama of distant crows
A chain of silence followed
Trying to justify itself
With the sloshing up of disquiet
For us to contemplate the short straw of our mortality
It was always hobsons choice from the get go.
Letters from another planet: The Mammaroon letters
Dear friends,
I doubt these letters get to you; it’s all wishful thinking on my part. Alas, I shall write anyway as Sisyphus would, right?
I have since been taken out of the fish tank-like home again and, this time, placed on a desolate planet. Well, I can only assume it’s a planet. A never-ending ocean of sand surrounds me, and the heat from two suns bears down on me; it’s unbearable.
I have sunburn and blisters galore all over my skin.
The only company I have is two mannequins; they stand hand in hand, ivory coloured, with the suns beaming down on their bald heads. Sometimes, the suns shine from such an angle that it blinds me to look at their heads.
I don’t know if this is a punishment and, if so, what it would be for.
I go in and out of delirium, and I’ve had many a moment where I think up a sordid joke inside my head, and a tumbleweed rolls past as if the world has read my fragmented mind and I’ve become the butt of the planet’s irony.
I have seen no other living thing, though sometimes I could swear the mannequins are watching me. I swear that sometimes they move; I have seen them lift a hand and wave at me!
One day, I awoke to find only one mannequin standing in place, the sand heaping around its feet, and when I turned around, the other one stood inches away from me. Between its legs was a hole, and water started to gush forth from it. I knelt underneath and let that water pour, lappin it up with a ferocious thirst. The mannequin returned to its previous spot next to the other, and again, they stood hand in hand.
‘You’re alive!’ I shouted toward them, ‘Come! I need more water!’ I bellowed. But they stood stock still as if neither had ever moved before.
I don’t know what else to say right now, so I shall leave this here.
Yours faithfully,
Holden Mcgroin.
P.S. I must amend my first observation that no other living thing is here with me because since I first wrote this letter, I have seen those little boobacious spiders falling from the purpled night sky. And, my, what a sight they were! And a sight they’ve left behind!
They glowed as if bioluminescent, something I had never observed in the boobacious species before. The purpled sky lit up turquoise like that plankton you have in the ocean on Earth!
The boobacious spiders fell to the sand and crawled in stop and start jerks, before riding their webs back up into the sky and slowly one by one the turquoise disappeared.
But now, in the sky, a tapestry of silk has been left behind and sometimes baubles of dew sparkle before dropping into the sand.
I don’t know what any of this means. Maybe I’m hallucinating the whole damn thing at this point.
Flesh
I don’t know why; I picture us under red light
as we become entwined under the sheets
I’ve seen films trying to be poetry
bending light in such ways
as to allow the viewer to possess beauty
but I want to bear you
while you seize me as your own territory
Perhaps the red light is a symbol of the blood that runs in moments like this
the rivers we run through
to be taken or take another
always trying to claw back to that feeling
of something primal, something more than human
that animal within us
when we need something
more akin to murder
perhaps like fucking
where nothing is more tender
than the meeting of flesh and bone
…And
outside covered itself in our intentions
or lack thereof
It’s hard to be sure
but death laid itself bare
the truest of all deaths
for life did not stir
Not from last year’s seed
nor the loins of death itself
…..And it was true
there was nothing wild left
but for the action of fucking
Bone
The remains gleamed in the white hot sun
the earth harvesting us
as we reaped the land we toiled
made in our image
Death comes for us
as does our turmoil
fleshed out in our marrow
seeking us
for the history in our bones.
A mundane view of a room
The books to be read piled in the corner
not too many, just enough
the smell of the imaginings yearned, wafting into the air
a room lived in
yellowing, like the pages
lives and worlds intermingled
becoming part of each other’s history
a feeling in our guts
that life just has something missing
that can only be found in books
In anothers eyes
Another’s eyes can consume you
Always, forever
your face emboldened behind them
and they can draw traces around you
drawing you into caricatures
telling themselves that’s what you really were
Malaise
A sense of malaise had set itself into the stone of the building
The clouds pregnant with promise of storms
Everyone inside held their breaths
Waiting for the first pin to drop
But it doesn’t come
Instead it builds up
A dreadful space filled with cigarette butts
The air acrid with sweat
And we persist
In spite of them
Our shadows a crowd
Crawling out from the walls
We think aloud
And the ears that pry litter the halls
And in our breath, the air is rigid and stagnant
Our lungs sensing only absence
Is there a more appropiate time to reblog this?
The UK once again point their fingers at a minority group and pulls the rug from under them. A distraction from the real freaks, the powers that be, and they have so many people hooked, line and sinker.
A mundane moment with secretive silences between teeth
The world holds on around us
While we fall apart
still, we falter in this dance
not allowing one another to ever change their stance
we shrug, palms up and say, ‘Fuck knows, eh?’
and we smile knowing smiles
a joke that needn’t be said
the birds sing
as if the world wasn’t broken
as if we didn’t yearn for slings
to support us with our aches
and we listen and we say, ‘That’s a blackbird, advertising for mates’
then we smile sheepishly
Secrets between our teeth
‘If you were a bird, which one would you be?’ You ask
And I reply, ‘a bittern so I can hide away in the rustling of the reeds and boom and bust with secretive laments, where no one really knows where I am or what I meant’
But, no, I don’t really say that, I shrug and say, ‘I don’t know.’
because this is part of the game
always holding back the little parts of ourselves
when we’re not sure what should be shown
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 