Posted tagged ‘Obituary’

Subterraneons: Prologue- Dead Martyrs

August 1, 2010

He was taking the high road as he’d done many times before. As middle age had crept in he was straining with every step and wished someone would give him a push. He rounded the twist in the road and saw the pothole. For months on his daily climbs he’d observe this pothole grow wider. Luckily, it was placed a few feet from the kerb and the wheels of cars missed the aperture. As no damage was sustained to the automobiles the crack went unreported.

At last he reached his destination at the brow of the hill. He remembered his grandfather’s disparaging description of sex: all that sweat for a little tingle. Now sweaty and out of breath, he smiled to himself. Hey Pops, I didn’t even get the tingle.

“Good morning, Mister Porter, you’ll be here for your Sunday Times, will you?”

Same old, same old sayings, old George will be talking about the weather next. He agreed with old George there was a nice breeze in the air and bought his newspaper and some gum. The only newsagent for miles and he damn near kills himself every morning because the paperboys are so unreliable in these parts. One of them even made it into The Times when he disappeared while on his bike. Vigilantes staked out the house of a creepy magician and he was forced to do a disappearing act.

The descent is a dangerous undertaking. With all the weight on his heels Porter slowly waddles like a penguin down the slope. He comes to the twisty part of the road. A small girl has wandered out of her garden onto the road and is heading for the pothole as a screeching car chugs up the hill. It is almost upon her. Porter, in haste, drops a section of his newspaper as he scurries for the girl. The car turns the curve as Porter pushes the girl onto the other side of the road. And Porter falls, falls into the black pothole. Falling, falling, lightly, lightly, until he lands on a bed of dead pigeons.

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Wooden Heart

May 27, 2010

I

We are the wooden men
We are the stacked men
Bundled together
Headpiece filled with splinters. Alas!
Our dried pallet cracks in the heat
Giving grief as Rat’s feet
With a skelf
Paralyzed, yelp for help

Those who have passed
With broken wood, to purgatory or side of the road
Remember us
As the wooden men
The stacked men

II

Every day a new voyage
Of discovery
Passing through the wasteland
More caressing acquaintances than Warren Beatty
Fondle us daily on our delivery
Tracy Emin would run out of graffiti

In our warehouses
We crate together
Slaves on a galley
Never knowing where to next

The beast with forked tongs appears
Darth Hideous!
Transported without a goodbye
To another ship, another load, another day

III

The sealing contraceptive wrapping
Engulfs us
Warping our frame
Suffocating us
From our four corners, we’re tied
A Gulliver on Lilliput
Practically
We play possum the cat
Every journey could be the last
Passing away of stacked men

In dreams of death
We see a broken slat
On a funeral pyre with flames high
And a boy shouts
“Penny for the guy”
We remember
Our violent chainsaw birth
Born with a timber
End with an ember

IV

On an abandoned road beside a pond
Not hitch-hiking
A man picked me up with great hands of brawn
It was a carpenter who was able
Turned the ugly duckling into a swan
I breathe anew as a bedside table