Monthly Archives: April 2012

Spring Gale Aftermath

The storm passed, we paused to

assess our dwelling for damage–

if the walls were still sound, the

fences robust, whether water had

seeped into the foundations or

rotted something sentimental in the

cellar, if the roof was whole or if

slates were sprung, and would it

shelter us through a

further Winter?

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Spring Gale

In the night the trees complain

as the wind works against the

grain of the land, taking

eastward-leaning trunks aback and

shaking the sense from poor

new-budded leaves.

 

In the night your house groans, the

carefully constructed frame

bent out of true and

rickety now because the

winds you braced yourself against blew from a

totally unexpected direction.

Pity Party

Your party is dismal, the

food nauseating, the drink

doesn’t do its job, the

conversation is crushing,

circular and uncathartic, and the

guests won’t leave even though

they are all in your head.

 

Tomorrow when you

wash the dishes and step carefully over

sleeping shadows waiting for the

revel to recommence you will

wonder if you can possibly

kick the whole rabble out and

what it is they have to do to

outstay their welcome.

“Whan that Aprille….”

Chaucer’s April, an April like we have

always known but had forgotten,

took us by surprise,

soaked us with squalls and

startled us with the sudden

coalescence of colours from

sodden sunlit grey.

House Music

He gave her a silence beautifully

wrapped in a mood, and there was a

bottle of the insides of bubbles

chilling.

 

She gave him a passing glance and a

blank card and

cold shoulder of something horned,

à point.

Lifebelt

A lifebelt would help if

one were handy and you weren’t so

far away and your

tear-sodden clothes weren’t

weighing you down in the

ocean of the past.

Cadaver Party

I like that some of my cells won’t know I’m

dead but party on as though their

host had gone to bed and

left them to it while they shout

“Loser!” and turn up the music, break out the

drugs, search my house for something

serious to drink and it will be

several cold dawns before they feel the

lack of food and warmth and

realise that the

doors are locked.

 

Elsewhere other guests ignore the noise

decide to bide

sleep and dream of all that

nutritious gloop I will provide while

in the attic one tiny bit of

grit imagines deep time and the

Sun’s last despairing belch

spraying them all starward

whizzing past each other yelling “Hey!

Great party!

When’s the next?”

Atropa Belladonna Von Coup

reader , writer , poet , person .

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