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A Book For Pandora

A Book For Pandora

Book excerpt

The Vision

 As the weightless wings brush my face,

fluttering against my vision,

I feel the path open up again.

A shallow wave licks my ankles

and fills the rock pools

with miniature lifeforms

that have no idea I'm here.

Like full lips parting

the wave draws back.

My feet follow,

ignoring the jagged rocks

that threaten to pierce the skin.

In the distance,

I see the family beckon to me,

holding out their hands for me to grasp.

But I'm bodiless,

my grip lost

to the horizon.

Once again,

I must turn away.

 

Our sweet fortress

We build up walls

to hide our little cocoon

of love,

with brightly woven threads

woven into a snug blanket

and a casing of polished ebony.

The heat of the sun warms us

as time passes,

grasses grow up around us

and wildflowers bloom year after year.

Our hands are constantly entwined,

and will be

until they are hands no more.

 

The demise of a splash of green in an otherwise grey world

The hard droplets pound

away at the pavement;

the dainty daisies growing in the cracks

stand no chance

against this sudden onslaught.

They fall flat,

squashed not only by the weight of the rain,

but crunched by wheels and feet,

all rushing past as though

they

are the ones

whose petals

are being washed

into the dark drain.

 

The River Guards

A gathering of columns,

decorated with bright, orange blooms

that cascade their scent

on the decayed air,

stand bold against the grey river.

To them,

Satan is just a song

that drifts down on the wind,

but for those who sail,

unwillingly,

beyond the columns' reach,

the song is more

a delighted warning of what awaits,

hellishly reminiscent

of the jaw-jarring scraping

of human fingernails on a blackboard,

drawn so fiercely across

that the nails are ripped away

from the cuticles.

The song instils anxiety into every

body.

What kind of creature

could possibly make such

a sound?

Propaganda

Red sweeps across the heavily veined

fingers clutching tightly

at the bulbous purple node;

a ruby mass fails to plug the seam

that widens with each breath.

The stain soaks deep

into the carpet fibres,

already building its resistance to being cleaned.

A perpetual reminder,

unless covered by a rug

so full of patterns that the looker

feels nauseated if their gaze lingers.

But, of course,

even so garish a distraction

is preferable to the plans

lurking beneath it.

So they say.

 

Mother-in-law’s Tongue

Forked, flecked like an

open mouth covered in spittle

in the midst

of an argument.

It sits in the shade,

biding its time,

watching for the perfect moment.

A suggestion here,

a remark there,

growing and growing

like a green, coiled snake

guarding every movement,

day and night.

 

Onwards to the rotting tiles

The chess piece is split down the middle,

parading as two - in a mirror you can see

it whole, moving puppet-stringed

across the board, never waiting for a second

to consider the effect having the image

of an extra player has on the other pawns.

One side is stained black, the other bleached,

but what of the grey space in between?

Sticky, sap-covered moss disguises it;

no-one can see that inside they are the same.

 

Gloop

It all started on

a Monday;

the contents of the pot dribbled

onto the floor,

flooding the newly polished tiles

with a voluminous

dark gloop.

 

The gloop was a mistake,

a recipe

gone wrong

from the mass of ingredients

forced to boil together.

Just like her life.

Spread out so thin

that she was barely a droplet of herself.

 

Working through the week,

she swept up the gloop

into heavy-duty sacks and buried it

among the mountains

of other people's waste.

 

But for years after,

the gloop's dark stain

remained.

 

Soiled glass

The chugging of the engine wakes me;

I am tainted

with its fumes.

A blackened face

in a blackened mirror,

a copy made of carbon

filled with the discards of personality.

 

My doppelganger's stupidity

faces me every day,

always solid with the expression of the trapped.

 

Ironic, don't you think?

 

If only I could roll it up

into little balls of doughy flesh

and pop them into my mouth one by one,

chewing and chewing until the juices

flow out

and I can use them to wipe away

the layers of coal-dusted

A City Owned - Murder By Increments Book One

A City Owned - Murder By Increments Book One

21st Century Security Officer - Situational Awareness

21st Century Security Officer - Situational Awareness