Picaroon Poetry - Issue #6 - January 2017

This issue has quite the mix of voices, from adorably sinister to tenderly brutal, deadly serious to charmingly irreverent, and everything in between. Featuring work by Peycho Kanev, Karen Little, Stephen Nelson, Mike Jewett, Belinda Rimmer, Lizzie Holden, Darren C. Demaree, Wren Tuatha, Uma Dwivedi, Mark J. Mitchell, Chris Hardy, Seth Jani, Elizabeth Gibson, Harry Gallagher, Bobbie Sparrow, Stephen Daniels, Kitty Coles, Gareth Writer-Davies, Michael Albright, Richard King Perkins II, Tonya Eberhard, Ann Howells, James Bell, Paul Vaughan, Larry O. Dean, Shadwell Smith, and Rex Davies.

This issue has quite the mix of voices, from adorably sinister to tenderly brutal, deadly serious to charmingly irreverent, and everything in between.

Featuring work by Peycho Kanev, Karen Little, Stephen Nelson, Mike Jewett, Belinda Rimmer, Lizzie Holden, Darren C. Demaree, Wren Tuatha, Uma Dwivedi, Mark J. Mitchell, Chris Hardy, Seth Jani, Elizabeth Gibson, Harry Gallagher, Bobbie Sparrow, Stephen Daniels, Kitty Coles, Gareth Writer-Davies, Michael Albright, Richard King Perkins II, Tonya Eberhard, Ann Howells, James Bell, Paul Vaughan, Larry O. Dean, Shadwell Smith, and Rex Davies.


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<strong>Issue</strong> <strong>#6</strong><br />

<strong>January</strong> <strong>2017</strong><br />

Edited by Kate Garrett<br />

All poems copyright © <strong>2017</strong> individual authors<br />

Selection/issue copyright © <strong>2017</strong> Kate Garrett

This Month’s Rogue Poems ● <strong>January</strong> <strong>2017</strong><br />

The Moment<br />

Peycho Kanev<br />

Blind Spot<br />

Karen Little<br />

The Gentle Art of Moving On<br />

Stephen Nelson<br />

Tremont<br />

Mike Jewett<br />

Tangle<br />

Belinda Rimmer<br />

Lost and Found<br />

Lizzie Holden<br />

Emily As Why the Path Is Winding<br />

Darren C. Demaree<br />

Your Violin<br />

Wren Tuatha<br />

Today, another pause<br />

Uma Dwivedi<br />

Correspondence<br />

Mark J. Mitchell<br />

Up the Garden Path<br />

Chris Hardy<br />

Olly Falling Short<br />

Seth Jani<br />

In Cambridge<br />

Elizabeth Gibson

Angel<br />

Harry Gallagher<br />

Vigil<br />

Bobbie Sparrow<br />

Sharing your light<br />

Stephen Daniels<br />

Lares<br />

Kitty Coles<br />

Bent<br />

Gareth Writer-Davies<br />

Because of your problem, are you depressed?<br />

Michael Albright<br />

BOGO<br />

Richard King Perkins II<br />

On the Menu<br />

Tonya Eberhard<br />

Reflections of a Pop-Art Madonna<br />

Ann Howells<br />

electrocuting sea slugs<br />

James Bell<br />

Helpdesk<br />

Paul Vaughan<br />

The Beard Won’t Shave Itself<br />

Larry O. Dean<br />

Vincent Van Gogh joins the Witness Protection Programme<br />

Shadwell Smith<br />

The Man-kind<br />

Rex Davies

The Moment<br />

Peycho Kanev<br />

That moment before<br />

jumping off the bridge –<br />

consider<br />

the freckles on her face<br />

twinkling in the indigo darkness.<br />

The Christian kneeling before<br />

the lions.<br />

One more step –<br />

There’s nothing sad in this world<br />

or happy, also. There’s only the next<br />

moment. And the one after that.

Blind Spot<br />

Karen Little<br />

Shredding urges, she steals beats from tree trunks, shapes heads.<br />

Birds light for flight are bronzed heavy, feathers tipped gold<br />

sag ashamed, brass taps from old bed sits sold for scrap are false<br />

exotica. I’d rather watch than listen.<br />

The crosses she always leaves out; absence sharpens<br />

hidden religion. Invisible stick birds make their mark,<br />

clumsy uninhibited claws, hollow boned, in tatters.<br />

Feathers find their use, dipping ink as her beak dips<br />

into everyone’s business, worming out deceit.<br />

He is always the maternal blind spot, scratched into dirt<br />

covered by seasons. I sway in front of her; it’s been<br />

a long haul, drawn by magnets, compass swinging every<br />

way. She folds wings before they spread, clips them given<br />

half a chance. Imagine her as gull instead of sparrow<br />

trapped in a bottle. Imagine how she’d snatch. Imagine her cry.

The Gentle Art of Moving On<br />

Stephen Nelson<br />

Chopped nuts make my cheeks swell and I’m tender-tongued in the morning,<br />

resetting myself to the plastic art of living. Grey yellow dreams of ice cream<br />

melt into the sheets, easily recollected on a particular flavour of thought.<br />

Our eyes lock in a café over waffles, tongues of love licking up me like tasting<br />

sundaes as a child and listening to Blondie sing Atomic. The first bite<br />

vanishes you, and you’re on the streets again, handing a beggar a fiver for junk<br />

as Cassandra passes and remembers her father and the dream of the sun<br />

setting over the Firth while she sucks a hazelnut Cornetto. Her peach-pink cheeks<br />

are aflame, speaking French to a Corsican refugee before the President resigns<br />

and Crimea burns red like cherries. One world ends and another begins.<br />

At night I find her closer than you, reading a book about hidden lunar bases,<br />

a safety net of cocoa and marshmallows balancing edgily on the puffed out bed.

Tremont<br />

Mike Jewett<br />

I.<br />

tremont, your bones—<br />

a theology<br />

we pick up ripe<br />

cantaloupe<br />

spooning<br />

digging<br />

faraway land<br />

she spreads<br />

fat wings<br />

or painted bellies<br />

or bulleted crows<br />

feet<br />

& the look—<br />

tremont<br />

II.<br />

& sometimes<br />

they pick up their feet<br />

sometimes<br />

a grey autumn<br />

clouds wince with<br />

gradient<br />

& glow<br />

fog<br />

III.<br />

follow the curve<br />

of your body when walking<br />

the curve of the shore<br />

it’s a midnight dance<br />

hips hold each other<br />

& feed each other fruit<br />

& dry in a black kettle<br />

hung over the mantel

like a different songbird<br />

with rusted feathers<br />

of black<br />

IV.<br />

(when your face<br />

belongs,<br />

indigenous<br />

to the sea<br />

salty lips<br />

pucker up<br />

sandcastles<br />

& pastries built<br />

of fine) silt<br />

V.<br />

& you drink your shadows<br />

at night when they can’t<br />

ever, ever<br />

see it coming

Tangle<br />

Belinda Rimmer<br />

My father’s old donkey jacket,<br />

cement dusted, jaggy edged.<br />

I can picture him in it,<br />

collar turned up against the cold,<br />

off to the pub for a few pints<br />

and a game of darts.<br />

On days when his moods hung in the air<br />

or smashed bottles littered the linoleum<br />

I’d hide inside his jacket,<br />

breathe in the smell of cigar.<br />

Sometimes I’d wish for a different father.<br />

On me, the jacket is still ten sizes too big.<br />

I plunge my hands into its pockets,<br />

imagine my father’s hands<br />

pushing up through the lining.<br />

Our tangle of fingers and thumbs.<br />

Pitching around, I find a clump of my baby hair.<br />

I wonder what else of me my father kept back.

Lost and Found<br />

Lizzie Holden<br />

Lost.<br />

Small lesbian.<br />

If found<br />

please don’t return.

Emily As Why the Path Is Winding<br />

Darren C. Demaree<br />

Sometimes there are roots<br />

or manmade ponds full of promises<br />

& sometimes the city<br />

engineer is in love with a girl<br />

& she likes to be chased<br />

while she serpentines<br />

the local parks. I asked Emily<br />

about this theory<br />

& all she would do is smile.

Your Violin<br />

Wren Tuatha<br />

When you look at me your ancestors fall out your eyes–<br />

Romania, the Camps, Zion and Lady Liberty.<br />

You are traveling still, I may not be home.<br />

You look at me when you’ve found a crack in<br />

your grandmother’s violin. Your swaying and fingering<br />

stops in the stream as your son bows still.<br />

Your china shop bull is prancing in my living room,<br />

and my grandmother’s candy dish clanks claps in time<br />

or on the edge of it. You would build a village with<br />

words or playing cards or particles, electrons, if you<br />

could just learn the trick of pulling them through<br />

the veil. The veil to that dimension, the veil between<br />

the world of the living and the world of the dead.<br />

The ancestors, reduced to Platonic forms in your head,<br />

to the thoughts of a violin bow as she sings old notes,<br />

and remembers leaving home.<br />

When you pull at me your ancestors fall out your eyes<br />

and you become all ages of a human man, out of order as<br />

your face squints affection and worry. “Impish,” that’s the<br />

word you prefer for the boy who makes you say the<br />

wrong thing. And a moment later you’re a lover at my<br />

neck or the traveler at mid-life, the highway a neck of a<br />

violin. Thoughts veil your face and your fingers twist your<br />

beard. I expect a Torah lesson but then you return to me<br />

and the boy grins, hands full of liberty and my locks.

You hide in science as if God has hidden your homeland in<br />

space time and we are to live in the house that experimentation<br />

built. I just want to collect your DNA. For further study.<br />

I’m a witch. I know the power of words better than a physicist.<br />

But I’m a poet. I know words are sirens and a ship on the rocks<br />

is no homeland. But our eyes locked, telling ages and the<br />

myths we make to hold hurts, our eyes locked, our bellies<br />

locked, dimensions, homelands, make me your violin.

Today, another pause<br />

Uma Dwivedi<br />

with Durga swallowing her words<br />

like gasoline. Today,<br />

another grimace<br />

as she puts down the matches.<br />

Durga doesn’t want the spark,<br />

the lick of fire,<br />

this tangled burning in her throat.<br />

Today, Durga wants to walk under the waterlogged sky<br />

without it falling down.<br />

Today, Durga’s lungs interlock fingers with the air.<br />

In. Out. In. Out.<br />

Palms pressed together<br />

like a prayer. Pike Place remembers her footsteps<br />

and the rain reaches out to greet her,<br />

swirls the sharpie<br />

on her sneakers to watercolor,<br />

pigments leaking together, edges blurring.<br />

Parvati laughs next to her,<br />

peels off her jacket and lets the rain<br />

run its fingers through her hair.<br />

Durga grabs Parvati’s hand<br />

and her sister squeezes back.<br />

Some things never change.<br />

They duck into a Starbucks and talk about the girl<br />

with the quiet smile and paisley hijab who gives them<br />

their coffee. The sky<br />

doesn’t even tremble.

Correspondence<br />

Mark J. Mitchell<br />

The riddle never reached<br />

the page. This morning<br />

no alphabet could shape words<br />

(except that eternal, accidental article).<br />

Paper, like a bird trapped<br />

behind a window, despairs,<br />

gathering its corners to itself<br />

forms itself into a letter.

Up the Garden Path<br />

Chris Hardy<br />

Straight out with it before<br />

we’d got in through the gate,<br />

Oh I’m alright, had a good Summer,<br />

but he’s left me for<br />

a twenty year old escort.<br />

(And how old’s he we wonder,<br />

how did he manage that except<br />

he’s loaded and will she be alright<br />

in that big house alone?)<br />

I uncharitably speculate on<br />

the other girl’s dimensions,<br />

while she stands in the morning heat<br />

lightly sweating as the sun shines<br />

on her large, unhappy face. I doubt if I<br />

can let it go this time, thinking of him<br />

(we all that instant do) peeling off lycra<br />

after a long bike ride. Now I’ll worry<br />

where he’s been, chafed and niffy,<br />

running to the shower saying<br />

he’ll wash his togs in there.<br />

We pause before her on the path,<br />

an obstacle of sorry anger<br />

that we cannot pass.<br />

She told everyone, we soon discover,<br />

looking for a clue from somebody<br />

who doesn’t have a stake in this affair<br />

maybe – how to pay him back,<br />

and get him back.<br />

Above, birds prepare for Autumn in the trees,<br />

feeding fast and leaving this year’s mate<br />

for flocks that circle in the air.<br />

She steps away and we go by,<br />

very sorry, perhaps he’s ill.

Yes, he’s ill alright, sick of me.<br />

Nothing can be said to that just<br />

useless sighs and trying to<br />

catch her eye, show sympathy.<br />

A moment later the lock clicks shut,<br />

releasing waves of confused remorse,<br />

that we can’t or won’t help sort<br />

this ancient, simple mess;<br />

also unspoken thoughts about<br />

our own complacent hours apart,<br />

delayed at work,<br />

car out of gas, too busy to reply,<br />

missed the bus, the traffic ..<br />

All that’s always true,<br />

and always is a lie.

Olly Falling Short<br />

Seth Jani<br />

Olly fails because he’s someone else’s<br />

Idea of an angel.<br />

His heart’s not white, but expectation<br />

Clouds his body.<br />

He doesn’t belong here, not anywhere really.<br />

Such is the burden of perfection,<br />

Of moving beyond the trajectories<br />

Of pain and music<br />

Into pure sensation and sound.<br />

He meditates with beads<br />

His girlfriend left behind.<br />

They are the color of misunderstandings,<br />

Of Chicago skylines changing shape<br />

In the past-tense of winter.<br />

Every time he moves towards<br />

Some sort of reimagining<br />

The weight of those losses<br />

Holds him like a ghost.

In Cambridge<br />

Elizabeth Gibson<br />

Soft lemon fudge in the rain back in time,<br />

one small umbrella with two huddled tight.<br />

Streets grey and gothic<br />

frowned up at our crime.<br />

Bridge dripping softly with tendrils of slime<br />

led us to harbour, we followed the light<br />

to soft lemon fudge<br />

in the rain back in time.<br />

Slippery cobbles accosted our climb,<br />

skies blue and rainy gave little respite<br />

while streets grey and gothic<br />

frowned up at our crime.<br />

Across sodden grass, a delicate chime<br />

led us ahead like the call of a kite<br />

to soft lemon fudge<br />

in the rain back in time.<br />

Chocolate and toffee and ginger and lime:<br />

wet fingers brushed as we sucked in the sight<br />

while streets grey and gothic<br />

frowned up at our crime.<br />

Seven years later, continue the mime:<br />

pass me a piece, a sweet-sour bite<br />

of soft lemon fudge<br />

in the rain back in time.<br />

Streets grey and gothic<br />

still frown at our crime.

Angel<br />

Harry Gallagher<br />

He tracks the trails of the river<br />

and the trickling of time,<br />

trawls by the terraces<br />

of an unemployed working town<br />

and finds magic in the cracks.<br />

Sees Quaker bricks bearing<br />

fingerprints of outsiders;<br />

these bridge builders who played<br />

jointhedots across a globe,<br />

smaller now than it was.<br />

Headstones are logged:<br />

marble, stone, iron, still<br />

spattered from the works.<br />

Reads strange immigrant names,<br />

forgers a future now passed.<br />

Allthewhile, blackwings feather<br />

the frontage of borders<br />

invisible to him. Each turn<br />

of the light noted captive<br />

in a pocketbook for nightfall.

Vigil<br />

Bobbie Sparrow<br />

Had I not been awake<br />

I would have missed it.<br />

Gratitude quietly lying there.<br />

An apology too,<br />

as I snipped her nails –<br />

already dead<br />

she followed soon behind.<br />

Behind mother<br />

yet imbued with mother.<br />

I saw her leaving face.

Sharing your light<br />

Stephen Daniels<br />

Her satin body nestles, close<br />

to breath and temptation.<br />

Between my intentions, my desires,<br />

alongside your indentations.<br />

I used to care about her<br />

movements, how she would sit<br />

in a high corner of our bedroom,<br />

waiting for the light.<br />

Occasionally, I find her children<br />

in the wardrobe. They sit<br />

between cotton and wool,<br />

take turns to bite the fabric,<br />

escape the moments I would wave<br />

a hand in her direction, avoid contact.<br />

Now she lies next to me,<br />

asks me to touch her.<br />

I reach over, tease<br />

the tip of my finger<br />

lightly on her body,<br />

watch her disappear into dust.

Lares<br />

Kitty Coles<br />

Nine candles over the hearth, their buttery flames<br />

attenuating, swelling, as if breathing.<br />

The copper kettle radiating warmth,<br />

glowing, pouring its light across the kitchen.<br />

My jams in the glass-fronted cupboard, each pot a jewel;<br />

blood-red, blood-dark, at each slow-pulsing heart.<br />

The books lining the walls, their inky stink<br />

brewing the air with must of cave and root.<br />

The chest of linens, white and blue and folded,<br />

lying in lavender, old stems, dry petals.<br />

The heavy teapot, its steams, its floral curve,<br />

holding my applemint, my lemonbalm.<br />

The shoes in the hallway, row on orderly row,<br />

my sturdy boots, your heel-scuffed, toe-scuffed slippers.<br />

The photographs in boxes, the cherished letters,<br />

scraps from the wreckage, fragments against ruin.<br />

The potatoes under the earth, grub-pale in darkness,<br />

growing smooth-skinned and firm as stiffening wax.

Bent<br />

Gareth Writer-Davies<br />

like the lips of Jean Paul Belmondo<br />

I am ninety per cent straight<br />

though missing<br />

out, happy with the cards dealt me<br />

I am the wet blanket, flung upon a fire<br />

the early night, a cuppa<br />

but there is something, in the eyes of certain men<br />

that hangs, in the flex of their shoulders<br />

and the part of me<br />

that bends, affected by male beauty<br />

unshapes me<br />

like a moth, emerging<br />

I have told you<br />

in confidence, that I am ten per cent bendy<br />

I will go no further<br />

now, kiss me

Because of your problem, are you depressed?<br />

Michael Albright<br />

I have been on FDIC & USDA<br />

along with peyote & then trillium<br />

for the path free monks, & you<br />

would have no idea how dearly still<br />

I have been. I have many times thought<br />

that I am trying, & yes, I've been lying.<br />

I called prison patrol & they told<br />

me to go to the OD & I said NO WAY!<br />

As I went beneath, they did knotting,<br />

but put me in the Bunny Barn for free<br />

daze & charge me 8,000 volts. It was<br />

absently mothering, & did no thing.<br />

So, I called the Christ Is Worker who<br />

said to waltz until I see the Dictator<br />

today. Then I walked into the Harm-<br />

acists who said it sounded like I had<br />

that darned Sarah Toning Sin Drone.<br />

Well, the halflight I am going Kuwait<br />

for the Dictator to tell me I can get off!<br />

Do I want to tell him where to go? But,<br />

I had better take the duck tape, to cover<br />

my big mouth. My hallucination is going<br />

with me. It is LETHAL! You have no idea<br />

how “drooge cockatoos” can KILL YOU!<br />

I can't say it enough. There are altering<br />

things to take out there. Look out for<br />

Maniacal Progression. It is only a gold

watch. Out yourself because they will not.<br />

They seethe to fuse a crews love noose<br />

when it comes to what the machines<br />

can do. I talked to the purse today & it said<br />

“You stink of weird tit,” & I think,<br />

“Oh my, what bridge are we coming to?”<br />

These skies should know these things.<br />

If we do not speak up for ourselves,<br />

we will be dead. Enough said.

BOGO<br />

Richard King Perkins II<br />

A fruit fly has fallen<br />

into my freshly poured cup of coffee;<br />

I discover it<br />

floating on a small white island of creamer.<br />

Pragmatically, I pluck it out<br />

and begin to drink without hesitation.<br />

Twenty years ago, I would have dumped out<br />

and scrubbed the entire cup.<br />

Twenty years from now,<br />

I’ll slurp down the insect<br />

with a big sip of coffee,<br />

happy to get a buy one, get one free special.

On the Menu<br />

Tonya Eberhard<br />

appetizers. stimulate the desire to eat.<br />

no-bone wings, lumped cottage cheese sauce.<br />

Asian pears choked in syrup. heavy dizzy spells in cold bowls.<br />

whipped sweet potatoes. wine-battered lungs.<br />

hummus. flatbread and white jelly spread.<br />

crab bites. fungus, mushroomed stuffed.<br />

bacteria-clutch diaphragm. with or without lemon aioli.<br />

sixteen minutes till entrée order.<br />

one of our most popular: Adam’s rib, half rack.<br />

ulcered stomach. includes charcoaled carrots, caramelized onions.<br />

grilled duck. mango-yogurt dressing drips from its eye sockets.<br />

risotto. burned broth, rotten rice. body lice.<br />

soup of the day?<br />

the chef’s choice: catalepsy. roasted cauliflower soup.<br />

cow-bone broth. bitter marrow. sick slaughterhouse.<br />

spinach leaves soaked in beet blood. bulimia.<br />

romaine. dried cherries. shriveled skin, inhumane.<br />

please, save room for dessert.

and when the servers bring out the blackened goat on a platter,<br />

I dare you to ask what dish they loathe the most—<br />

corpses. those undying breeds of men.

Reflections of a Pop-Art Madonna<br />

Ann Howells<br />

I don’t remember my mother’s face<br />

just taut, bloodless lips,<br />

as she recited Shalt Nots,<br />

dressed in bath or closet,<br />

unable to bare breasts to her daughter.<br />

The 60s caught us unaware.<br />

I stumbled, blind, from her Eucharist box,<br />

burned my bra, knelt and took The Pill.<br />

Later, I wrapped my daughter<br />

in motherhood’s voluminous apron,<br />

taught her sex was neither totem nor taboo.<br />

Yet, she named herself Immaculate Conception.<br />

Left me wobbling on a pedestal –<br />

pop-art Madonna swaddled in fluorescent light,<br />

gold wedding band my halo.<br />

She wrinkled her nose,<br />

sounds, she said, filtered from my bedroom.<br />

Embarrassing. Unseemly.<br />

She tucked me back in Mother’s Eucharist box,<br />

and though she professed no religion,<br />

it reeked of frankincense and myrrh.

electrocuting sea slugs<br />

James Bell<br />

remember when we did it –<br />

the set up the organisation was immense<br />

each only with twenty thousand neurons<br />

at a millimetre diameter makes them big<br />

doo-doo<br />

hard to miss<br />

strands thick as a high E guitar string<br />

ugly creatures of bulk<br />

though tuned by their synapses for a floppier purpose –<br />

question mark cerebral cortex<br />

of which primates have with neurons in their billions –<br />

hard to see even if you lose a few<br />

to bacchanalian delights –<br />

no animal rights types protested –<br />

much easier than monkeys –<br />

an experiment to test for memory<br />

wasn’t it –<br />

I’d forgotten about that until now

Helpdesk<br />

Paul Vaughan<br />

Her jaw dislocated<br />

when they got the ‘phone bill<br />

charging eight hundred and eighty-two pounds<br />

for a forty-two hour call<br />

to Bulgaria at premium rate.<br />

In small print,<br />

if you need help, please contact us,<br />

we’ll see what we can do.<br />

She rang, explained that she had not called up<br />

Annie’s Farting Fetish Line and,<br />

having checked with him,<br />

neither had her husband.<br />

She got upset,<br />

when the customer service officer<br />

sounded oh so bored by her repetitive insistence<br />

that something must be wrong.

The Beard Won't Shave Itself<br />

Larry O. Dean<br />

Place your face<br />

right up to the TV,<br />

flush to the screen<br />

for as long as possible,<br />

low-frequency radiation<br />

expelling hairs which pop right<br />

off.<br />

Smearing honey<br />

instead of shaving cream,<br />

hurry to the zoo<br />

and seek the nearest bear's cage,<br />

jam your face between the bars,<br />

let nature take its course.<br />

Affix multi-blade razor<br />

to doorjamb, cupboard, or coatrack,<br />

bobbing head up and down<br />

as if nodding<br />

yes, yes, yes...<br />

Epilate cheeks<br />

with bikini wax.<br />

Find something flammable,<br />

marinade beard<br />

and light a match.<br />

Caution: have bucket<br />

full of water nearby.<br />

Or when falling asleep,<br />

keep repeating,<br />

“I need a shave...<br />

I need a shave...<br />

I need a shave...,”

dreaming of barbers<br />

stropping blades to such extremes<br />

of acuity<br />

with steaming hot towels<br />

and adjustable height chairs<br />

that the mere thought<br />

makes follicles<br />

recede overnight<br />

back into pores.

Vincent Van Gogh joins the Witness Protection<br />

Programme<br />

Shadwell Smith<br />

March 10 th , about 11:20 am<br />

The Van Gogh Exhibition at The Royal Academy –<br />

thirty five letters<br />

(one blood stained)<br />

sixty five paintings<br />

and thirty drawings<br />

but I could have told you Vincent<br />

Still Life with a Plate of Onions<br />

was never meant to be a decoy<br />

for the sledgehammer raid on the Rolex shop down the road

The Man-kind<br />

Rex Davies<br />

Chief science officer<br />

I have to report:<br />

The Man-kind was here.<br />

As usual, the world itself is recovering.<br />

Small mammals dominate the ecosystem<br />

Which once having purged herself with plague & pestilence<br />

Luxuriates everywhere, even the dead zones.<br />

The customary close sift of digital detritus, however<br />

Revealed this document describing<br />

How, when archaeologists<br />

From the future arrive (like us, sir!)<br />

Long after the man-kind died<br />

Then our extensive analysis<br />

Of flora, fauna and fused file-space<br />

Will conclude that “the poets really nailed it”.

For writer biographies / web links, please see the<br />

‘Contributors’ page on our website.<br />

Thank you for reading!

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