That photo you posted
on Facebook
of her and him
unmoored me
sent my head spinning
down
down
that whirlpool
of memory
the immaculate misconception
of my frail craft
the face in the photo
having the last laugh
Immaculate Misconception
horror
Who Let the Cat Out?
Who let the cat out?
Sleep did.
Sleep lifted the lid.
Let it roam
the alleys and backstreets
of the mind
rummaging through
memory’s bin;
Look what the cat
dragged in —-
half-buried scraps,
dead rats,
old what ifs.
Who let the cat out?
Sleep did.
The Big Reveal
Did you know the pattern on your nightie matches the pattern of my underpants?
Really?
Yes, he says as he pulls down his jeans to show her.
I can see , she says, that your underpants are a little loose in the legs.
Meaning?
I can see more than the pattern of your underpants.
You don’t mean ….
Yes, she says, the crown jewels.
Oooops, he says, as he pulls up his jeans and they collapse in laughter on the beanbag.
Flinch
They get up, rumpled, a little worse for wear. take a look, hold each other, flinch.
All that clutter.
The humble vessels and instruments of the night before, that wrought such alchemy on a lowly leg of lamb, packaged parsnips, carrots; followed by a serve of dried apricots and flaked almonds, soaked in brandy, all generously washed down with an aged red. Or was it two?
What a night!
But now …. the domestic terror in the sink.
Even alchemists have to clean up their mess.
pic courtesy of Pinterest by John Currin
Exorcism
The exorcism was short, brutal
after five days of possession , the toxins
had weakened my body, drained my senses
but on the sixth, a little miracle happened;
my body did not convulse or levitate
nor my head spin round like Linda Blair
but all the toxins pored out of me in a holy sauna,
soaking my underclothes, shirt, track pants,
the sheet I was lying on, all soggy and cold
but I was clean, strong, rejuvenated,
the only sign, the stigmata of possession,
two scars on my upper lip, healing, healing
movie poster courtesy of Pinterest
Devil of a Night
They were in a little cottage out the back with nothing to write about on a dark and stormy night. Delia, a tall, strapping, Scandinavian woman, with long greyish blond hair down to her waist, had just given them, a small group of seniors, fifteen minutes silent writing during the class on short story writing. You should be able to come up with something, she said,almost despairing of her hopelessly floundering flock. This was the second session and still not a word had been written. The thunder boomed and lightning flashed helpfully as if to provide prompts. Delia paced up and down out the front working herself into a froth.
Just then, as if on cue, the door flew open, and a drug-addled man with straggly blond hair and black tank top stormed in, neck and arms swathed in devil tatts, shouting obscenities in a strange guttural language, throwing chairs around the room thankfully with no one in them, and then with his anger quenched, stormed out again. Where’s Security when you need them, fumed D who immediately phoned the police. Suddenly everyone started furiously writing. Delia could not stop them.
pic by pretty sleepy on pixabay
The Thing in the Cage
It always come down to this: Did he see it or did he not?
Warren goes to the Children’s Hospital to see his daughter who’s been run over by a car only he gets lost in the maze of corridors. He panics, opens doors at random, many without signs. That’s when he sees it, the thing in the cage. It’s humanoid, hairy,stands upright and rattles the iron bars. It looks him in the eye. A stricken, get-me-out-of-here look. Warren is horrified. What is it doing in this big white room? In a Children’s Hospital? Warren backs off, fumbles for the door handle, and races out, down the corridor, any corridor that leads to the light. What had he seen? Was it an experiment? Was it top secret? Had he seen something forbidden? He retches for air.
When he steadies himself, he goes back to Reception, makes sure of directions this time and finds his daughter. He does not say anything about what he has seen. He knows he has seen something he should not have seen. Or maybe he had seen nothing at all. Frenzied phantasmagoria. He keeps quiet. He talks to his daughter about home, about how she is, about when she is coming home. They talk and talk and talk and he holds her closely. .
Hittites
You jerk
awake
black thoughts
scuttle across
the floorboards
of yr brain
little
armour-plated
Hittites,
the cockroaches
of yr mind
- photo by Hermes Rivera from Unsplash
Scenes from an Abduction
It was like something from the Marie Celeste
the remnants of a meal — the last supper?
a half full stubbie of Fosters, tele still on:
‘A Current Affair’ with Tracey at the helm —
he never would have left Tracey in the lurch —
car keys still on the mantelpiece, signs
of a scuffle in the hall, the whiff of a cigarette
in the doorway but no note, nothing — and then
that call from the watchhouse:, cold & bleak
‘Your boarder, Adrian ….’
True Colours: the Story behind No Sympathy …
When people ask me, did you have any inkling in all that time you knew him, I say, not really, then I think of the incident in the restaurant,the one that slipped beneath my notice in what was meant to be a piece of devilish fluff in ‘No Sympathy ….’
It began in the third line: Hey! Is that a glass of water you threw over me? That’s when autobiography took over and followed us out onto the sidewalk where I was shoved to the ground when my back was turned and my mate who had turned rogue did a runner.
So did I know? Did I suspect? I sure did: in those moments he unleashed diminutive, haiku-sized bursts of anger, I could feel the embers of a conflagration 18 years before that the forensic squad, armed with new evidence and methods of detection, were sifting through and building a case.
His mate, Dale , who let him stay on his property at Second Valley in a caravan while he got his life together, fell victim to Adrian’s wrath.
All that time Adrian proclaimed his innocence, He was the only suspect. He lived at my place for a while, He rode a bike, did the gardening, spoke to the kids, Everyone loved him. A top bloke, they said. Then the night ….
Once my friend was charged with the cold case and sentenced, he finally admitted to us: Just think, he said, 15 years for five seconds of madness.
That little haiku of a revelation warned me that of all the affairs we have to manage in life, our temper comes first.
