Author: poetryfest

I. Sterile Field

The bodies don’t speak,
but they suggest.

Each morning,
I unwrap their silence
like a gift no one wants,
toe tag, chest split,
drain what dreams remain.

They smell of cooled iron,
of memory.
One still wore lipstick.
One still wept
from ducts that shouldn’t function.

I reach into cavities
with gloved grace,
plucking organs
like rosary beads.

Behind the mask,
I hum
not melody,
but rhythm,
to keep time
from folding inward.

They say we are sterile.
But the bodies remember.
They always do.
They follow home
on the undersides of fingernails,
in the breath I exhale
into my sleeping wife’s mouth.

II. Tupperware and Tendons

Dinner is overcooked,
chicken, dry,
sliced too neatly.
I stare at the cut
like it might twitch.

My wife says
her elbow hurts.
I imagine an incision
along the medial line,
just a peek
at what screams beneath.

The fridge hums
like a morgue drawer.
I reach for silverware
and touch only clamps.
My wife blinks.
She smells faintly
of antiseptic.

I clean the counter
in concentric circles.
A ritual.
A ward.

In the kitchen window,
my reflection is gowned,
gloved,
face shielded.

Behind me,
the hallway pulses,
soft light,
a tray of tools,
another case
to open.

III. Autopsy of a Living Room

The carpet is too red.
Too textured.
I kneel
and test for viscosity.

In the lamplight,
my coffee table reveals
its inner anatomy,
bone beneath varnish,
capillaries of splintered wood.

My wife lies on the couch,
half-asleep,
head tilted
at the perfect angle
of a post-mortem cranial block.

She doesn’t stir
when I whisper,
“Y-incision.”

There is a click.
The ceiling fan spins.
I don’t remember turning it on.
Its rhythm matches
a saw I haven’t used
since Tuesday.

Somewhere in the walls,
fluid moves,
not through pipes,
through veins.

I lay back on the floor.
The house breathes in.
So do I.

And finally,
we share a pulse

Planted as saplings
stretching and growing
into tall dark-green trees
ranged along contours
of mountains and hills.
Rooted in nourishing
rich brown earth.
Watered by brooks.
Lines of communication
spanning from roots
and fungal networks.
Safe.

Then chainsaws.
Cutting deep into bark.
Felling. Stripping.
Diesel and death
stinking clean air.
Betrayed by those
who planted
and nurtured.
Cut down for profit.
A jay flies over
the devastation
seeking its home.

He won his election
through lies and deception.
And it soon became known, across the nation,
that all he had claimed was a fabrication.
A web of lies he had woven,
to forge the career he had chosen.
He said he just wished to do his job,
but was hounded by the whole press mob.
He was no rogue, he wasn’t a clown,
and it was the liberal media that was doing him down.
He became a joke, a figure of fun,
his career unravelled, and he was undone.
He then stepped down, he did claim,
to fight for his honor and clear his name.
But with his reputation sunk so low,
his only option was to go.
Though those he did dupe and deceive
were all too happy to see him leave.
He said his opponents had been spiteful and unfair,
and he had merely embellished his resume, here and there.
It was tough to be in the news spotlight,
every day, and every night,
to be constantly doorstepped by the fourth estate,
and asked to set the record straight.
His career was a ruse and a con, on such an epic scale,
that now he’s ended up in jail.
Was it worth it, George, to win your election,
by such chicanery and deception?
To have your name dragged through the mud,
and to be seen as a grifter, and a dud?
To lose, would have been better by a mile,
than to win in such a wretched style.

There seems to be a disconnect in what we deem reality
The truth about our origins being forgotten, it seems
Like we don’t understand the reason for existing
Like we don’t comprehend this paradox in which we’re living

Do they even want to see or understand the meaning?
Why do they get angry when everything that I am saying relies simply on thinking?
Isn’t that what they wanted me to do?
Didn’t they teach me that in school?

It’s thanks to them that I see right from wrong, right?
It’s thanks to all their lessons that I see when it’s a genocide
‘Never again!’, they kept saying with so much pride
They named my school after a man who failed at homicide

They taught me about her diary
but not about her family’s history
And now they are literally trying to convince me
that truth is not what my own eyes can see

They gaslight and they name-call, while they justify another bomb
Do they really believe we don’t see that that is wrong?
They’ve always stood so ‘high and mighty’, defended by their lying media army
pushing all this propaganda and narratives that are so harming
Thinking they’ll just keep brainwashing everyone

But somehow I perceive that we are not standing for this much longer
Somehow I believe we see collectively that only the truth will make us stronger
When our souls shout loud enough
their narratives vaporise and turn into a cloud of dust

They taught us all of this
They said to fight and to resist
regimes of oppression
and proprietors of mass-destrustion

They taught us right from wrong
So what the fuck is going on?

I take the grainy water
dip a furtive hand in the low tide
and kiss the sign, sulphur rising
I watch the tangle of motorway turn
as a mobile above her riverbed

kneel, penitent daughter returning
forgive us our trespasses on the tip of my tongue
shame my voice and its betrayal
the forest encroaching
on this bright communion ground

to contain holy sound, I write myself breathing
I write the path we found
lost on the hillside
did we look towards heaven?

I write myself out of this place
I write home, write stillness
between the line breaks
my god, is this where I’m rooted?

Your roots are deep
They beckon me
Pulling me towards you

You and the earth collide
Leaving cracks at the surface
Ditches and rivets I cross
As I journey
Unable to ignore your call

There you are
Moonlight dancing on your leaves
I stand in awe
Next to you I feel so small

Your bark is thick
Impenetrable
Your branches spread wide
Sturdy
Able to hold my weight

I climb your fortress of limbs
‘Til I’m safe within
Looking out
Looking up
The stars are bright
I enjoy the world from your sight

I want more
I want to explore your every part
I travel deeper
From branches to twigs
Until you break
And I fall

I’m bruised and you are broken
I promise to never push your limits again
I make myself a place
A home
I lie at your base

I water your roots
And one day you bloom
Beautiful buds all over you

Months later they turn into fruit
And feed my soul
Sweet to the taste
But then they turn
Rotting once they are inside

After many nights at your feet
I now know it’s time to leave
Your siren song still sings
Still pulls at me

In your shadow I have spent too long
It’s time that I move on
I’m a traveler you see
It seems this world
Doesn’t have a place for me

I did not want to converse with your ashes
A result of your index finger of defense on the shooting barrel.
Your body deflecting the light of the early morning fog,
The sun.
Ricocheting on your beige monochromatic static expression.
Staring at nothing.
And the blue aryan of your eye, the only glittering coat of life.

No more of your butterfly wings,
your laughter—
only the filth of mud in your fingernails
inertia in your hand,
still gripping the Holy Bible
I gifted upon your soul.
The psalms your lustful clench casted away,
the last thing you prayed.
Unfaithfully.

But now I–
speak to your ashes in an unconventional face and gaze
a premature metaphor-ordained death
but there is no voice.
Not from me or you,
Despite your face coming through and blood pumping out of you.

So I faithfully stand at the telephone booth,
wasted all my Sunday church coins trying to squeeze vowels out of you,
choking you. Turning. You. Blue.
(Heavenly father disapproved—said that wasn’t proverbial of me)

So I try at home, and voicemail is all I know of you.
Go. fuck. you.
I meant, sorry. Go. forgive. Yourself.
Or Forgive. me.
Now that the telephone cable is clothing my neck
in the spread of your Holy Ghost
round the city’s face.

—

But your voicemail preludes Gods,
and he’s the only one that softly,
madly talks,
filling the puzzle of you.
Sanctifying my intestines,
Wrapping my hands in rosaries,
restoring the lustful grip of yours
washing my typewriter and me
while I call
and call
and call
to the one that was you

The fleeting beauty
Of her yellow birthday roses
Excites Me
And saddens me

On one hand
They are full and vibrant
Filled with scent and adoration
A presentation of my
Inner love
Manifested in their
Overlapping petals
They naturally exist
That brings pure joy

On the other hand
Vibrancy dies in a day or two
The fragility of existence
The short life lived
Only to serve
To only exist to bring joy

The delicate balance
Of a short but fulfilling life
A small moment in time
To express an abstract
Yet foundational feeling
Maybe a filament of life lived well

In the Office of Squirrel Recruitment,
A scent of damp despair was evident.
With documents that smelled both sweet and faint,
And one wilted fern, a drooping, sad complaint,
A silent witness to some long-lost goal.
Behind the desk sat Kafkett, whose whole soul
Seemed sewn into a suit, a rumpled sight,
As if it went through a car wash one night.

Across from him, a man so truly beige,
He risked just blending with the plaster stage.
This Normalson, he clutched his CV tight,
A sacred text in the depressing light.

Kafkett leaned forward, with unblinking eyes,
His voice a boom of confidential size.
“Let’s begin,” the strange pronouncement flew,
“I am a Business person, and so are you.”

Normalson blinked. “Well, I’m currently not employed,
Which is the reason I came, I’m in the void—”

“Details, details,” Kafkett waved a hand,
“You are a business woman, or a man,
And so am I. I have registered. See?
A legitimate establishment.” With glee,
He patted his desk, which gave a woeful shake,
A leg about to buckle, bend, and break.

“Right. So,” said Normalson, with focus fraught,
“What is it, then, that you do?” he sought.

“Excellent question!” Kafkett beamed with might.
“We find you Candidates. Have you lost your light?
Have you lost yours? Are these them, by the way?”
He gestured to what looked like takeaway
Menus in stacks. “Take them! Be my guest!
I don’t want them. Put them to the test.”

Normalson stared. “I… have no candidates.
I am a candidate who waits and waits.”

“Precisely! We provide a tailored,
Integrated approach. You’ve been detailed!
What is it? You’re asking the wrong me.
A horizontally-integrated synergy
Is at the grassroots of our great success.
What does that mean? I couldn’t tell you, yes.”

Kafkett stood up and started then to pace.
“We are a forward-thinking, future-facing space.
Our Digital Team got stuck inside the lift.
How disruptive! What a paradigm shift!”

He stopped and pointed. “Here’s the process, son.
I come into your office. We have fun.
We do meeting-and-greeting, hellos and good-day.
Then I leave the premises. I go away.
Voluntarily, in some cases. I’m a very
Smooth operation. Quite contemporary.”

“But I don’t have an office,” Normalson said low.

“We’ll work around that. We will make you grow
Into the great success that you are today!
But also employed. It’s a two-pronged attack, hooray!
We’ve placed so many people, just like you,
In jobs like yours. The market’s flooded through
With quality. The market then collapsed.
Is that a good thing? My knowledge has lapsed.
I don’t know why. I’m not your mother, friend!”

He leaned against the wall, and to that end,
He struck a thoughtful pose. “We’re well-renowned
In Business Circles. Lies about us bound.
One of our great successes was a forum,
Where candidates could meet, a place for ’em
To talk about our service. Then, you see,
Another success was shutting it down, with glee.”

A headache bloomed behind poor Normalson’s eyes.
“Do you have… references? Or some replies?
Reviews perhaps?”

Kafkett was bright and cheery.
“You can rate our services online, my dearie.
Good luck finding the site. We have a feeling
It’s been deleted. But if you’re appealing,
And become an elite VIP, you’ll get
Your own Account Manager. A person you’ll have met
Who will be very difficult to please.
Welcome to the real world. Now, on your knees.”

He sat back down, his fingers in a steeple.
“Let’s talk of strategy, for business people.
Our main competitors are common sense,
Market fluctuations, with their evidence,
And carrying on just like a pork chop might.
My chief concern with fluctuations… right…
Is that I do not know what they all are.”

He stabbed the air with two fingers, near and far.
“You have to have charisma for this bit,
Which is what I believe this is. To wit:
Ways to appear charismatic, so they say,
Include market fluctuations and, okay,
A random, aggressive use of ‘air quotes’.”

Normalson just stared, collecting notes
Within his mind of pure insanity.

“I used to be like you,” said Kafkett, he
Whose voice now softened with a strange, off-key
And manufactured sense of empathy.
“Hungry, lopsided, and not using the words good.”

He cleared his throat. “Now, to be understood:
The interview prep. We take turns with the pack.
If one consultant embarrasses themself, alack,
The next one goes in. Then the next. Then three.
Then lunch. Can’t be doing this all day, you see.
Our Digital Team locked themselves in a meeting.”

He leaned in close, a scent both wan and fleeting
Of weak tea and sheer confidence took flight.
“Psychometric testing is a tool of might,”
He paused, a glint of madness in his eye.
“But so am I.”
He let one sharp laugh fly,
Then stopped. His face a mask of solemn thought.

“A sense of humour,” he continued, “can’t be bought.
Much like a dog that’s not been taught to speak,
I’m great at sensing humour’s highest peak.
Would you like an example?” Without a pause,
He barrelled on, ignoring nature’s laws.
“And finally, the Squirrel Recruitment prize:
We analyse the psychological ties
That stop you getting work. And if we find
No such issues present in your mind,
We will create them for you. Custom-made.”

The room was silent. Even the fern’s slow fade
Seemed to have stopped to listen. Normalson
Opened his mouth, then closed it, feeling done.
He saw his perfect CV, neat and plain,
And saw the crushing, bleak, predictable rain
Of one more automated, cold rejection.

“And if I’m unhappy with that selection?”
He whispered, barely breathing in the room.

“If you’re unhappy with that pending doom,
We have a special consultant,” Kafkett cooed.
“If you are not unhappy, feeling good,
We still have a special consultant. That’s our way.
We have one regardless of how you feel today.
You are not the boss of us, I don’t think so.
I’m the boss of us, unless you know
Otherwise, and if you do, please tell me now.”

Normalson looked at Chaos, with its brow
Furrowed in thought. He saw the void, and it
Was wearing a cheap suit and wouldn’t quit
Making air quotes. And for the first time in
A year of beige, he felt a spark begin.

“Okay,” said Normalson, a slow smile bloomed,
No longer feeling weathered and consumed.
“I’m in.”

Kafkett’s face split in a triumphant grin.
“Who runs the world? Girls. Now, let us begin.
Any other questions? Things to know?”

Normalson shook his head and answered, “No.”

“Good. Squirrel Recruitment. Are we the best?
No. Are we going to put feathers to the test
In this whole industry? Also, no.
Welcome aboard. We don’t know where we’ll go.”

There is an outer layer of this feeling:
some fragments of infinity that gathered around and framed you in my heart,
there is mystery to this all but
this layer doesn’t peel off,
I wonder if painting your portraits and watching them burn would do the trick,
but it shatters my already hurt heart
to think of burning your beautiful face painted in dexterity,
I guess the poets, and all were right:
love doesn’t go away
it stays smouldering and sinking within.
I guess the movies were not playing us either
there is no way around pain but of embracing it
when all I yearned for was your long arms holding mine
nothing the universe and her magnanimity couldn’t spare.
My ilk, the bad writers and lovers, only get scraps for the memory
the rind of our affinities stays affected and eternal.