The clouds loomed low from the clothesline
hung out to dry
An omnipresent dread preached a pregnant silence
holding us awry
whorls smeared windows
trying to put our fingers on it
this thing amiss in our lives
the streets rustled with paper and plastic bags
time passing slowly, interminable
the roads wore a sheen reflecting traffic lights
nothing was astir but for white cloaks of bags willowing on the air
with long fell swoops arching as a bird
flying on the wings of an impenetrable blur
a predator in concert
a plastic pterosaur
before falling, inert.
writing
Old boot
We felt ourselves hapless victims of childhood
arms folded, sulkin’
not another five minutes to play
gotta go back to school on Monday
childhood didn’t fill our boots
so we outgrew them quicker than we meant to
I’d already been under the scalpel
chest wide open with the swirl of finger tips in gloves
digging to the heart of the matter
then sewing me back up in blue
like blue laces
knotting up my chest
the place where secrets get kept
I worried they’d seep through
now that I was a boot
what if I wasn’t weather proof?
the rain would fall and the soul of my socks would squelch
I heard the other kid died in surgery
I wondered at that, but not for too long, because I was young
but it left it’s mark
I grew up with bubblegum breath
and a sheen of tears
’cause the other kids said I was weird
I played on the street after school
I thought my friends back home thought I was cool
which was a different aspect to what I knew
in that place of learning
but they got pulled up by their ears
soon saw me for being weird
and that was that.
I felt a discarded boot
a bullseye only a target to shoot
so I ran in the woods to the river
skipped stones and became greener than my roots
Fox cub huskie terriers
Me mate strolls in says, ‘They pack thee fannies over’t pond’
he’s ever a husky if ever he were a dog
he whines and howls like one
i’m a fox cub already battle worn
hounded down by men in flatcaps from’t conservative club (me da’s mates)
‘What ya on about now?’ I glare ‘im down
‘Woman on tele asked where ‘er fanny pack was!’
‘Bumbag’ me da said over’t newspaper
‘Bumbag t’ you too!’ me mate replied, candy fresh smile broadened his cheeks
‘Now you little…’ me da started, the newspaper all rustle and bustle in his huge paws
‘Ya git on outta ‘ere ‘fore I gi’e ya mother a reason…’
He needn’t finish that sentence
me mate ran out howling as he meant to prowl
the street wouldn’t ‘old him
ever a terrier in his blood
ran up the ginnel up to the woods
he ‘ad scent on a fox
trailed it to our den under a dense canopy of trees and bushes
he pushed a glacier mint into his maw
and I ran in breathless after ‘im
‘A shouldn’t’ve called ya da a Bumbag.’
”E don’t care. Jus’ wanted us out of ‘is ‘air’
we sat in’t den and scribbled our names in dirt with twigs
when paper mill siren blew it’s horn
we ‘unkered down as if it were’t blitz
mud on us faces
films we’d seen on little screens played in our ‘eads
anyone passing by was soldiers not merely men
we ‘ushed ourselves with sweets and glacier mints
we felt alive, animal, primal
a fox’s den, territorial
we didn’t know war
just the mood of cubs hidin’
wild eyes ablaze
licked clean by mums
a wilderness still alight in us.
Algorithm’s mutants
A wild beast scrambled
The writhing of discarded pieces
worming their way into the periphery
picassoesque faces
grotesquing beauty
the eyes of luck impervious
to our talismans
transparency smudged
with the swirl of fingers
pulling our jaws from their hinges
the art of a horror show
agape on the dials of our features
metamorphosing into Dr Algorithm’s mutants
Scuttlebutt
The bees buzzed the latest scuttlebutt of the land
petals a quiver with all the critters
creeping and crawling
the buttercup highway
The sun gleaned the morning
bursting forth rumour of a hot day
Menalcholia: Emptiness
There is a violent melancholy
it’s in my lungs
my blood is curdled by it
it begs for someone, something
to be fought
just needless violence
to mark the vivacity
of this emptiness
A lonely place
I am a fiction, a mythical beast
I am all the word games we play
The white noise of the poltergeist
smeared against the teeth
of those who’ve taken from the feast
It’s a lonely place to be sliced and diced
by the mastication of someone else’s inner grin.
Sunday wordle: Traffic
What did we raze for these serpent roads
to roll as armoured beasts
to what slain saints of the underworld do we owe our gratitude
as we crawl as great hulks
through the mist of our every herds breath
traffic lights, the storytellers to this entity as one
as we blink our hooded eyes out of the sun
this long, long beast a dragons tail, serpentine
roars with impatient voices
waiting, longing, straining
for the emeralds.
Humour me more of my letters from Mammaroon
Dear, Friends
Another letter in such quick succession! I know! But there is much more to report on, dear friends!
I must be going crazy! There is no other explanation!
I awoke today to find that the mannequins were no longer standing hand in hand. I initially thought they were nowhere to be seen in my sleepy haze! Till I opened my bleary eyes further, looked around me, and realised that they were now lying down, each mostly submerged in the sand but for their knees jutting out. One had its legs spread open, the one I had drunk from the other day; the hole was visible as if trying to entice me. The other one, whom I had never seen the front of, as I never dared go near where they stood, as there was an ominous energy about them, had a phallic-like column jutting out of the sand. Yes, You read that right!
At first, I didn’t have the energy or wherewithal to think anything more about it. Frankly, my skin was itchy and sore, my lips sore and dry, and my stomach aching so I rolled over and started to doze again.
When I came to again, I looked back at the Mannequins, who were still lying in the same position. It was then I noticed some sand had since blown off their torsos, and I could see little beads of sweat on their chests. I crawled and slid across the sand, parched as I was. The journey towards them felt like it had taken forever, and it had taken me a while.
I curled up next the mannequins and went back into a hazy sleep.
When I awoke, I painfully crawled closer and started licking at the little beads of mannequin ‘sweat’ with a great thirst.
‘Oh, thank you!’ I found myself saying, ‘I need this!’ I said, every bead tasting like heaven to my tongue. I followed the mannequin’s body with my tongue till I reached under its knees, and then I was between the legs and licking up any moisture I could.
It hadn’t occurred to me, Dear friend, in my thirsty haste what this looked like! I was just so glad of any water! No matter how little the baubles!
But as I reached closer to the hole, a thought startled me!
‘No!’ I shouted or instead tried to shout from my wretched throat, ‘No, I will not!’ I felt my nails dig into the sore skin of my hands as I made fists. ‘Fuck you!’
See, it had occurred to me that this was what they wanted; this was what they were counting on! They were breeding from me! They were trying to get my sperm! I know how crazy that sounds, but is that so crazy after all I’ve told you? Alice and my daughter flashed into my mind, and it all made sense. They’re using me to breed!
Then, another horrifying thought entered my head, does this mean, dear friends, you no longer exist? Are we near extinction? Were trying to conserve us, using me? Am I the last man alive?
No. No. No.
No, I will not have it! If that is so, I shall die here. I shall die out, and I shall not be giving them anything of mine!
Yours faithfully,
Holden Mcgroin.
Author’s note: I think these letters have essentially become my creative outlet for writing practice. They’re hit and miss, but I’m sharing them anyway.
Cannibal
There is white noise
beaming from your teeth
As we become ground meat
smeared against your cannibalistic grin
all the hate you shape
We only taste good after you’ve driven us insane
silverbackgorillapoetry.com 