Tuesday, 9 August 2011

Prose Poems

Trying something a bit different here; not quite stories not quite poems. Hmm...


I’ve seen hospitals before today. They were different. I was too: The shower head pissed on me. Red life spiralled. You pulled the curtain and saved me from the drain. Wrapped wrist bleeding, they took me away.

The itch of a healing stitch; took months to feel normal again. Patience for the patient, you saw me every day. Saw serotonin save my soul.

Dad’s depression. Ma’s anxiety. Apples grown from within the tree. Crimson branching unity.

Eight months. Your stomach still trying to kick my hand away.

Wolves at the gate
We know the smell. A stifled air stain, a strain of lust . Swift swipe dance, violent romance.
They taped my mandibles, a growling throat for rabbits and kittens. Easy to scare these creatures but harmless until they cut the duct. Red raw bliss; crunch and hiss.
Easier to entertain than we are to train. More saliva in their mouths than ours. We are different sides in the same divide. You have your corner and I mine.
Don’t worry, I’ll take my time with you. And you me. Sacrifice an ear or eye, rupture blood vessels, tear cartilage. Do whatever it takes to stay in this cage. Away from the howling animals. 

You Know It

You know it’s bad when Jim is laughing. Guy can’t spell his own name or the abridged. Like I have all day for this shit. Don’t have to be nice to the one’s can’t think right. Boss don’t mind.
Maggie’s known: village celeb. Homeless fly in a monocular web. Like I got time to think fruity, I’m off in five minutes. She points at the scones, Indian ink crucifix; Lord sticks. Act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.
Jim keeps laughing, Maggie keeps pointing. I’m into overtime. There but for the grace of God:
Cock off.
I kick them out. Friday night lights and all. Boss almost surprises me when he goes:
“Money’s money” 

Importance of paper

My dreams make the kind of sense howling ants make to barking cows. Giggling and gesturing with Chinese-fan fingers, Jack Nicholson walks into a bar. It’s my house, my grandmother’s, the first school and a few trees fitted together. In the kitchen I’m pouring stout. He’s got that cuckoo grin; sideways, crook tooth slant:
“Got Satzen?”
“Harp, Guinness.”
“Blackest one.”
He smiles while drinking, doesn’t even wipe his teeth and leans into my ear:
“The truth we write like badly signed checks.”

Sharp, sequenced noises help red, broken numbers say 6.45 in the only voice they’ve got.
My mind wretches up last night’s memory of a nurse, whose liquor-loose tongue told me everything:
He asked for her number. His kid went for the last operation. His wife dried eyes in the ladies. This nurse, she found some office paper, cross weaved in crease, and a twist top ball point.
Her mascara meandering downwards she spills some more before I bore.

The warm water won’t drip. In cold shave I cut myself and roll some tissue paper into white sphere soak. It doesn’t stop. This tiny wound might bleed me dry.

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