The Centre is Missing

Ogasa Shin

Here is a line of tongue rust wire scarecrow tangled
In a dream field sunset ochre barbed and acutely angled
To catch the horizontal beams of cold sunlight falling
Into the vault of senseless days of winter calling

Here your footsteps tattoo tread the silence shattered
Your thoughts hang air lung ragged exhale tattered
Writ their lines on open graves but failed to save the world
From apologists and scientologists with crooked fingers curled

Here your kisses to my pursed lips cross black stitched
All thoughts of silver flight wing clipped fever ditched
Prohibiting escape to a dictionary of ripped loose words
Corralled lacklustre with the gut-wrench grass-graze herds

Here all talk of lungs and tongues will be declared taboo
Baited breath and sotto-voice will be the deserving end of you
Spine and stitch and binding sucked from all your treasured books
All pages, leaves, harlequin sleeves and unbaited guitar hooks

Here force-fed with belief deceit and loose atomic grief
Scarred by visions fetid, fecund - brutal beyond belief
Stitched into your vertebrae to hang on hooks of hate
All the pretty horrors of a species too close to late

Runaway

In the Pavilion of the Red Clown ~ Robert Williams

Jane has gone to join the circus
Left all her toys and silver trinkets
when truth came calling with bunch of corroded keys
to fit the doors of the labyrinth called home
light came crawling through floorboard cracks
to catch the dust of leaving feet
that tread the stair descending
…toward a Technicolor tomorrow

Jane never looks backward
To where spheroid-bodied spiders
Sketched L-shaped legs on dead-skin floors
And when asked to produce
Some form of credentials
She smiles and points toward the clowns
Sulking on the stairs of their cartoon caravan
…smoking menthol cigarettes

And burning rings of flame are Jane’s addiction
Focuses all of her fiery attention
Tooth marks on the lion-tamer’s splintered chair
Legs on the trapeze swinging bar
And slipped finger marks on severed safety nets
Leaving unsuspecting audience
With crumpled tickets and crying children
…wishing they were Jane

Dali's Egg ~ 8. Circles of Power

The transition was seamless, immaculate and cold stomach-pit frightening. The cold blue of the pool was replaced by the warm yellow sunlight. She was standing facing the giant black chain where it ran out to sea, creaking in the swell. The gulls circled above her, cacophonous,
“Go back, go back, dangerous”
“Huh?” she took her first breath since Mars had taken her last in his mouth.
June McBride wondered what she was supposed to do. The chain seemed to call to her but she was reluctant to travel so close to water so recently left behind. She turned to face the land that rose behind her, imagining briefly that she saw a scraggly figure dancing on the small flat area at the top of the red mesa.
“I’m dead” she croaked, the sound of her voice dull against the moaning surf. The cool of the ocean’s spray caused her to look down to where her abdomen should have shown the evidence of Mar’s brutality. Unblemished, her naked skin prickled, the hair on her arms brisling despite the warmth of the sun; suspended in the pond she’d felt nothing, here she was afraid.

“Jane Grissom wants to see you after lunch old man”
John looked up from his plate, his eyes drifted up from Morose's half smile through the shimmering heat above the treetops to the hut on top of the mountain.
“Who lives up there?” he asked.
Morose looked up through his eyebrows, picked a piece of meat from the plate he held at his waist. His tone was flat, “Nobody lives up there old man, best not to wander too far from the paths eh?”
John pushed his plate away, his meal only half eaten, “Who are the Judiciary?”
“Jesus Gabriel, not while I’m eating, you’ll give me indigestion – keep your nose clean you’ll have no cause to worry about the Judiciary.”
“One of these days I’m gonna get a straight answer out of you Morose”
“Good, well let me know when you do and I’ll have myself severely punished” Morose wiped his mouth and hands with a white handkerchief and, placing his empty plate on the table, he said in a clear voice “My compliments to the chef! That was delicious.” He continued in a businesslike tone, “We’ve got another incoming tomorrow. It’s a woman this time so Saki will do the initial contact. You know the drill folks; make yourselves scarce when the word comes in. Thank you.” Morose wandered out into the clearing and lit a cigarette; the aromatic smoke encircled his head briefly before being carried away by a gust of sea breeze.
John turned to Adam, the boy was distractedly picking at his food with both hands, elbows on the rough wood of the table, his eyes followed Morose as he ambled across the red dust.
“How does he know that someone is coming?” John asked quietly
“The Blueman tells them.” murmured the boy, nodding his head in the direction of the mountain.
“The blue man?”
“Guy on top of the mountain; knows everything, and he can get stuff for you, he’s really scary though. I spoke to him once before she got here, now she won’t let anyone see him.”
“She?”
Adam turned his tanned face toward John and rolled his eyes,
“Grissom” exasperated, he turned his back on John and lifting his plate, he moved to another table muttering “Jeez, what a dumb fuck”

The path grew gradually narrower the further he progressed up river, the bells on his ankles tinkled a melody above the rhythm of the river’s song. The path forked after a twenty-minute walk, a walk long enough for John to notice that forest had taken on a two-dimensional quality. He also became aware of a subsonic humming that clung to the air at hearing’s horizon – white noise. The left hand path continued inland along the riverbank, the right hand and broader path headed away from the river. John took the narrower path on the left.

“Hey Anubis, here comes Jerry”
“Jerry Who?”
“Jerry Atrick, gghh gghh gghh”
The black suited figures fidgeted manically in the throws of phlegmatic laughter; flecks of spittle fell on their lapels. They regarded John with canine amusement.
“What you want Jerry?” asked one of them, his voice composed of a deep rumbling extended growl.
“You come for your pension Jerry? gghh gghh” added his brother in a higher pitch, his shoulders jerking with puerile amusement, “Come for your bus pass? ggghhhwaaah”
Pinned to the expensive fabric at one of their chests was a highly polished silver star that bore the inscription ‘Top Dog’.
“Whatsamatta Jerry, cat got your tongue?”
“Yeah, that pesky old Tomcat got Jerry’s tongue?”
“I want to go up the mountain,” said John, indicating to the path that disappeared into the trees behind the sniggering duo.
“Fuck off old man” barked top dog, baring ragged teeth.
“Yeah, fuck off Jerry,” echoed the other, still sniggering, “And don’t try sneaking past us. Cos we can smell your bells baby.”
“Shut it Osiris,” snarled top dog, slapping his brother across the chops. “And you,” he turned his yellow eyes back on John; “you stay on the paths and stay away from the fucking forbidden areas – got me?”
“What forbidden areas, nobody’s told me about…” there was a hint of puzzled indignation in John’s voice, which he struggled to conceal
“I’m telling you now, you old fuck, stay away from the forbidden areas, else you’re gonna feel the full weight of the law”
“Yeah, Jerry, you fuck with the law, me and Anubis will fuck you up big-time.”
“How do I get to Jane Grissom’s house then?”
They crossed their arms over their chests in unison,
“Back down the path and take the inland fork, half hour’s walk half-wit” said Anubis, silver star flashing, “Don’t you go upsetting the Boss now hear, she’s still well pissed off about the other night’s transgressions and you annoy her now you might find yourself on the end of a chain baby.”
“Thank you” John did his best not to sound sarcastic, this was not one of those occasions where being smart is an advantage.
“Fuck off” said Anubis, eyes locked on John.
John fucked off, slowly at first; stepping backward before turning wearily and after the first few shaky steps he broke into a sprint, unable to stop himself. Behind him he heard the Judiciary break into high-pitched giggles.
The two dimensional edge to the world that he’d noticed earlier was gone – He gasped for breath, hands on his knees at the fork. He spat a few times, re-tasting the gull meat he’d eaten earlier, and recovering his breath at last, he continued down the path that led inland.

“chka-chka-chka-chka-chka-chka” John started as a magpie swooped low over his head, flapping frenetically as it followed the path to disappear in the green up ahead.
John followed, the path smoothing progressively, gaining a sense of human involvement, a sense of manicure.
Eventually he found himself walking on zigzag brick paving. Flowers bloomed in arrangements of colourful abandon at the side of the path and their powdery scent was accompanied by the sound of birds and cicadas and crickets. John realised that he had not heard these sounds anywhere else on the island. The air was cool and as he crested a blind rise the trees thinned out to reveal, nestled amongst them, a large two storey white timber-framed house with a veranda that ran around all four sides. The Stars and Stripes flapped idly from a flagpole that projected out diagonally from the façade above the veranda. Roses gushed a perfect rectangle of colour in front of the house, colours of impossible vibrancy and variety. To the sides and rear of the house the trees had been thinned out so as to allow the sun to glorify the impossibly green lawns where sprinklers hissed at the edge of hearing. John stood transfixed, the back of his neck prickled with the uneasy feeling that if he moved or made any sound, the illusion would shatter and he would be left facing the inevitable wrath of the Judiciary.
The smell of baking caused John to salivate uncontrollably, he swallowed a few times as a slight creaking sound brought his eyes to rest on the figure of Jane Grissom who swung slowly back and forth on a double swing chair with orange floral upholstery that hung at one corner of the veranda.
She gazed out into some point in the distance, her expression so melancholy that John almost felt sorry for her. She wore a white calico dress and a straw hat with floral headband and puffed distractedly at a large cigar.
John drew a deep breath and walked toward the house.
“Ah, John,” she said, noticing him “good to see you again” she extended her hand and he shook it briefly; the cigar had disappeared.
“Dr Morose said you want to see me?” John tried hard not to sound resentful.
“A formality really, just to check that you’re settling in and to clarify what is expected of you as a resident of our little community. But please pardon my manners, a little refreshment first, you’ve had a long walk” she rose from the swing chair, causing it to squeak loudly, and motioned for John to follow her into the house.
He passed through the open double doors over which was nailed a small wooden placard inscribed ‘Eden’.
The room was huge; four rotating ceiling fans caused a draught at the open doors where John hesitated momentarily, unable to equate this room with the rudimentary living quarters enjoyed by those in the village. To one side of the door a black metal cage hung suspended from the ceiling on a black chain. The cage swayed slowly from side to side as its occupant, a large black and white magpie, bobbed on its perch.
“chka-chka-chka-chka-chka-chka” it chattered, “chka-chka-chka-ch-cunt!”
“Kali, we have a guest.” Professor Grissom chastised the bird, giving its cage an affectionate tap, “Behave.”
The polished wooden floor was covered with intricately woven rugs in deep red on which were arranged an unnecessary number of chairs and sofas, the walls were adorned with framed tapestries in red, white and blue bearing slogans like ‘Home Sweet Home’ and ‘Count Your Blessings’. Jane Grissom motioned him to sit on a rattan sofa with floral cushions. She reached down to a matching glass-topped table where she lifted the tiny brass bell and shook it briefly, causing it to give off a single high-pitched tone. The deep silence that followed the ebbing note of the bell was broken by the sound of a door slamming open. Startled John turned in the direction of the noise, noticing, as his head whipped round, the pained expression on the Grissom’s face. Through the door came a large black woman in a pale blue uniform, complete with lace cap. She carried a wooden tray bearing a teapot, china cups and two plates of steaming apple pie. The woman made her way unsteadily across the room, bumping into an occasional chair. As she drew close John noticed with horror that her eyes and mouth were crudely stitched closed with coarse black thread.
“Thank you Grace, you may go now.”
The woman executed a sort of bow in Grissom’s general direction before shuffling back to wherever she had come from – the kitchen, John presumed.
Grissom sat down on the sofa opposite John and with a slight frown of concentration, began to pour tea into the two cups. Her powdery perfume was identical to that given off by the flowers beside the path, only now John caught a whiff of an underlying scent, a scent of decay, of unwashed bodies and sweat. She handed John one of the china cups and he once again noticed her bitten fingernails, the cup rattled against the saucer as he nervously placed it on the glass-topped table.
“How come…?” he began
She raised a hand in a now familiar gesture, palm towards him
“Please Mr Gabriel – no questions,” She handed him a slice of apple pie “Eat, enjoy”
Saliva gate-crashed the back of his mouth but caution made him hesitate until the Professor began to tuck into her own piece with obvious relish. He scooped a forkful of the hot pie into his mouth and the sweetness infused his whole body causing it to tingle like too much coffee, sending the blood rushing around his body, hair-trigger sensuous. In the back of his mind he could hear his fork tinkling against the plate as he closed his eyes and was engulfed and enflamed with pleasure. He welcomed her hand on him and, opening his eyes, was not surprised to find her kneeling naked between his splayed legs. Her mouth was hot and wet and her tongue was velvet on the underside and he watched intrigued and enraptured at the slow rhythm of her head and the colours that swirled in her hair and just before the void swallowed his awareness he watched through occluded lashes as her head exploded in a blizzard of flowers and he smelled once again the odour of decay and rot, strong and real and… and…
…and he opened his eyes to the smile in Grissom’s blue eyes and the thin rivulet of blood that escaped from the corner of her swollen lips. She sat across from him, straight-backed, with the china cup resting primly between her hands on the calico dress.
“Things are not so bad here John,” she purred, “all you need to do is to decide what you want – whatever it is, we can get it for you, you can be whoever you want to be here.” She sighed in obvious pleasure, “Good apple pie isn’t it?”
“Uh…” John managed, struggling to make sense of her words.
“It is available to those who are strong enough to do right by our little community, and I believe that you are just such a person John; I believe that you have the right stuff.” She licked the blood from the corner of her mouth, raised one eyebrow and smiled, “What is it that you want?”
“How do you… Why…?”
“Ah, you see, the questions, always the questions. Listen John, information is a valuable commodity here. If you want information, you are going to have to earn that right, learn to follow the path laid before you, do not stray and eventually you will rise to a position where all will be available to you. Like I said John, you can be anyone you want to be, just as long as you follow the path.”
John had a momentary vision of himself standing naked in the centre of some Victorian bedroom; his eyes and mouth stitched closed with coarse black thread.

The Judiciary emerged from the undergrowth onto the zigzag brick path where, moments before, John Gabriel had stumbled past in a daze.
“Pussy power Bruv, you gotta laugh. One sniff of pussy and the mind goes blank. I doubt whether he’ll be straying from the path, not today at least.”
“So whatcha think?” Osiris bent and grabbed a handful of the flowers from beside the path and shoved them in his mouth, “Think he’ll knuckle under?”
“Fuck no” replied Anubis, sniffing the air and listening to the receding tinkle of John’s ankle bells, “No way, the old cunt’s too fucking stupid to know when he’s got a good thing going on – he’ll walk the chain for sure, or die trying, betcha anything”
“Can’t teach an old dog new tricks ay? gghh gghh gghh” Osiris ripped up another bunch of flowers, chewing on one side of his mouth.
“Speaking of old tricks brother,” said Anubis, “let’s hope the new bitch is willing to do some favours for the Judiciary eh? With Irene gone we’re gonna need someone to do the business eh? I mean, she may have been a bit vacant in the head department but she sure gave good head and never said no to a good fucking either. I’m gonna miss that crazy bitch.” He glanced sideways looked at the vacant expression on his brother’s face, “Stop eating the flowers you twat, you know that only makes the boss even more pissed off than she normally is.”

Crosseyed & Painless

Sowing New Seed for the Board of Agriculture and Technical Instruction for Ireland ~ William Orpen

And walking in the light of a world three times removed
My shadow hand sows stars upon the dark and tilled earth grooved

A new sky display with counterpoint suns and clouds of disbelief
Seeds the day with rust’s perfume peppered by time the thief

I breathe this poison in, arrest it in my sunken chest
There to germinate into the path that suits me best

And pausing briefly I pour myself another cup of someday
To sweeten yet the open chests of birds laid out in black array

All button eyed and feather frayed and risen from the dead

Lodger

Expectation ~ Michael Hutter

In this attic room, confined and defined
by the chequerboard light from a disinterested moon
I fake my confessions in blue ink
From a pen that has known no mercy
Save the warmth of my hand

Heads roll past in the street resigned
In the guillotine glow from a disinterested moon
Never to rise tread water or sink
But set free by a cold act of mercy
Sketched outlines by my mercenary hand

On the factory floor where hate is redesigned
To fester in the cauldron of a disinterested moon
Checked and signed in octopus ink
Set free by a heart that knows no mercy
Save the touch of my severed hand

So to this attic room I am confined
Limited in thought and deed by the iron in an idiot moon
Under which I was born to think
That the world will offer no mercy
To the director of this ink-stained hand

Dali's Egg ~ 7. Fishing

“Good Lord Gabriel, you look an absolute mess man - we were beginning to think that you’d been taken by the Strippers” Dr Morose was supervising a group of villagers as they replaced the kitchen roof with new palm leaves.
“Stripper – there was only one of them,” said John as Morose stepped back from the hostile look in his eye “One Stripper, and it only takes the weak – I spoke with it." He drew a ragged breath, “The Moon…” he began, unsure of what he’d actually witnessed in the previous night’s furore.
“Ah the old Moon” said Morose, “Fascinating subject, the Moon, most folk take it for granted, but you’ve got to be careful when dealing with our little satellite.” He lit a cigarette from the crumpled pack and inhaled deeply.
“The old Moon seems to have developed a special relationship with the folk on our island; stay out of his way basically, leave him to his little orbit around the mountain; stay away from him and you’ll not have any bother.” Morose smiled in a ‘that’s all there is to say on the matter’ way and made to turn on his heel.
John looked up at the mountain but the Moon was not in view. Something stirred at the outer limits of his memory and he struggled to grasp it, but is slipped between the fingers of his efforts and left him with a faint nausea and a pit of regret in his gut.
“Who strung Geoff up at the lagoon?” he grabbed at Morose’s shoulder.
“Be careful man” Morose grabbed John’s wrist, easily disengaging the clenched fingers and dropping his arm distastefully, then, straightening his shirt, he smiled grimly, “The Judiciary don’t tolerate insurrection.” He brought his face up close to John’s, his voice dropped a decibel, “Don’t tolerate just about anything”. He turned back to the silent workers on the kitchen roof. “If you want to question our Justice System you’d better take it up with Grissom. In the mean time you’d better get down to the river mouth and help Saki and Shangaan out with the fishing”
John stood for a moment, undecided, and after a hard look from Morose; he turned and took the path downriver.
As he passed between the dunes at the end of the path he spotted Saki, standing on the shoreline with a large net. The scarred black man - Shangaan - was wading into the water, waves tugging at his knees.
“Go back, go back, dangerous” a seagull circled Shangaan. He stopped, waves crashing around his waist while more seagulls appeared from the bright sky and noisily circled his body. He took a step forward and the gulls swooped down to peck at his exposed torso. Saki waited until Shangaan was almost lost to view under the flapping birds before swinging her arms out in an arc that sent the spreading net out and over the gulls and over Shangaan. John watched as Shangaan now turned and waded back to the shore, the trapped birds flapping and squawking as they tangled themselves in the fine mesh of the net.
Obviously feeling John’s presence Saki turned in his direction with a smile.
“You are just in time John; help us to get the birds into the basket”
Shangaan had managed to extricate himself from the net and together they started to remove the gulls, wringing their necks deftly before dropping them into the straw basket. John joined in reluctantly:
“I thought we were going fishing?” he said
“There are no fish,” said Shangaan evenly “this is all we have”
“Why did the birds attack you?” clumsily John wrung the neck of a struggling gull.
“They are not attacking him,” said Saki “for some reason they try and protect us from the sea. If you enter the water they will try and chase you back onto the beach. Every day Shangaan volunteers to be the bait – a very painful experience – I tried it only once”
“Why do you keep volunteering?” asked John, turning to Shangaan, the expression on the man’s face was serious, perhaps with concentration.
Shangaan raised his eyes, searching John’s face for sincerity.
“The birds are all we have to eat. The pain helps me to remember.”
“Remember?”
Shangaan hesitated; Saki answered for him “Shangaan wants to remember what came before. He says that eating the meat makes the past memories die.”
While they were talking the boy had appeared from somewhere up the coast, he was covered in red sand. “What do you remember?” he asked, chin pointed in John’s direction, “I can remember a lady with blue hair and a baby who smoked cigars. What can you remember?”
John frowned; probing his memory caused a weight on his chest, a shortness of breath – trees in the rain.
“I remember… eggs… a fried egg.” He said in a whisper that bore a hint of panic. The boy snorted and taking one of the dead gulls from the basket, he began to pluck its feathers.
“You’re all so fucking boring,” he said.
John did not see himself as an old man, he was dismayed to find himself shocked by the boy’s apparent lack of respect for his elders – Adam obviously didn’t see any of them as worthy of respect.
“Adam was the first one here, he’s had to put up with a lot of changes.” said Suki into her chest.
Shangaan grunted in disgust but said nothing; he dropped the last seagull into the basket then turned back toward the crashing waves.
“One more haul should be enough for today.”
John grabbed Saki’s arm as she began to follow Shangaan, he whispered:
“Somebody hung Geoff from a tree last night, why?”
Saki wrenched her arm free and gathered up the net, her brown eyes flashing; she walked to the waters edge.
Adam stood at the basket plucking feathers; he turned his head toward John and whispered
“The Judiciary”

Tonight You Will Be Mine

The television sulks in the corner, muttering away to itself about inane essentials, pretending to ignore her.
She takes her medicine, inhaling deep; the room holds its breath, afraid to ask.
And exhaling through the rings of felled trees where dulled axe handles choose to rot amongst the writhing fungus in time-lapse frames of photo-finished sepia mementos; exhaling great industrial skies criss-crossed with contrail rings and hearts coagulating arterial; she finds herself seated before its eye, sucking in the waves of love that are its want to give.

Tales for the attention deficit reader

Science Fiction

Perhaps we could fly
If evolution would design the intelligent wings
Perhaps we would spend more time
Thinking about what to believe
If we weren’t so easily distracted
By death’s flickering fire shadows
Cast on these plastic cave walls
Perhaps our cynical circuits will short out on the horizon
When lightning takes the path of least resistance
Perhaps we don’t seek to live
In a landscape void of windmills
Or any other such folly
Should the iron in our blood
Be arranged by magnetic fields
To face in one chosen direction?
This democracy is a barren land
Where all is known and risk-free
Encased, cocooned in a tyranny of safety?
You can keep your talk of arrows
Time or cupid sent -
I don’t care about the numbers
I don’t want to hear another corporate apology
I don’t speak your language
I don’t want to wear those logos
I refuse to live in fear
I won’t buy your software upgrade
I don’t want to feel the numbness

Dali's Egg ~ 6. June

The pond was cold and surprisingly deep beside the worn path where footsteps seldom fell in the chill of autumn nights.
She lay at the bottom looking up at the moon, its full circle distorted and filtered through the gills of eight metres of water; murky and abundant with microscopic life that floated like dust in the blue light. The digital silence allowed nothing to enter her ears; not even the sound of a bubble that rose from her mutilated gut to break the pond’s bright surface; not even white noise.
It was late November but she knew that her name was still June and that Mars had taken something from her; something more than blood. The knife that he’d drawn from the sheath strapped to his ankle and the engorged flesh, already unsheathed, that he’d used to take what he had no right to take without her consent, where more than just weapons; they were objects of change.
She had met Mars in The Stable Inn at the edge of the village. He had possessed a charm that shone in the light of the vodka she’d been drinking since opening time and he’d seduced her magpie mind with its shining and with his returned-from-Eden-to-visit-his-dying-mother-I’m-a-sensitive-and-complicated-soul story. He’d looked in her eyes and seduced her from the inside as if he already held the key to her heart.
“Richard Mars” he’d said, extending his hand after the first minutes of their meeting. She’d laughed in disbelief and shook his hand, an act that switched the points of her future to a track that led from the first touch of his dry palm and the flow of words and alcohol, through a solid chunk of time to the moment at the edge of the trees on Johnson’s field when he’d grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the water’s edge, where with one hand on her mouth he’d whispered the moon’s poetry and unsheathed his weapons; steel and flesh.
She’d bled for a long time after he’d finished his ritual and weighed her body down with rocks and dropped her into the pond, bled the water red, but had been unable to move to see what he’d done to the body she’d always though of as her own.
Once a stray current had brushed her hand over the gashes in her abdomen; unrecognisable to her dead fingertips; frighteningly inhuman. She’d felt no pain after the initial excruciating horror and now that the water had cleared of her blood, she was left cold and numb and unable to do anything except stare at the moon through the blue lens of the pond.
Someone would miss her soon. Surely someone would come looking soon.

The torch had been damaged during the chase and now gave off very little light. John had lost his sense of direction with the undergrowth seeming equally dense on all sides and he’d lost the trail of blood in the deepening darkness. Any sounds that came to his ears did not offer clues to the way back to the village. In fact there were relatively few sounds for what seemed like a fertile forest. At one stage he heard what sounded like gruff angry voices arguing and the crashing of bodies through the forest. He tried to head in that direction but the sounds faded away into the distant silence once more. He wandered aimlessly for what felt like hours, and, teetering on the edge of panic, he heard the faint roaring of the surf off to his right and, figuring he could find his way back to the village from the beach, he turned in that direction. As if on cue, the torch spluttered and flapped as the flame consumed the last of its fuel and plunged him into darkness absolute. He stood for long minutes as his eyes became adjusted to the loss of the torch. Eventually he made out a vague grey light up ahead, a grey light which gradually got lighter as he tripped and crashed toward it, finally busting out onto the beach of a shallow glassy lagoon surrounded by gnarled and twisted mangroves. John’s attention was immediately gripped by the moon; it hung silver and blue about ten feet above the top of the mangroves, looking down on and illuminating a body that dangled by the neck from the tree in the clearing on the other side of the strip of water. Too far to identify the hanged figure, close enough to notice the shiny silver chain that had been used as a noose, John started forward, his first steps into the water sending concentric mercury silver and black rings into the lagoon and splashing against the sound of the rolling surf behind the trees. John waded across the lagoon, waist deep at its center, but stopped about ten metres before Geoff’s naked hanging corpse. Geoff’s expression was relaxed, despite the noose, and his arms formed a vee to modestly cover his genitals. The air seemed to hum with some magnetic force as John noticed that there was what looked like a narrow ribbon of smoke rising from the top of Geoff’s head. His eyes followed the path of silver smoke up to where the moon appeared to be drinking it in with puckered dark lips while one of its dead grey eyes watched him with idle curiosity. John stumbled forward, fell splashing to his knees on the shoreline, and dragging his eyes from the sucking moon, down the silver chain, past Geoff’s pale body, to the dangling feet to which a ragged piece of cardboard had been nailed. Inscribed on the cardboard in cursive letters was the legend:
Guilty of breaking Rule No.1
Straying - Strays are bad for the pack.

Soul Ransom

Trinity ~ Dariusz Zawadzki

Hostage-takers hang out on the avenue
Watching for that tell-tale spark
Between who you are and how they see you
They will capture your essence, Photoshop your scars
Place you in light filled room
Open for display in a celebrity-shaped vase

While encased in a block of solid metal alloy
The source of all your words
Takes comfort from the illusionary ploy
Executed by agents bereft of worthwhile portfolio
But versed in the black arts
Of extracting the meaning from all that you know

And all that you see on this lost horizon
Is the jagged coast of yesterday
Where pirates’ coves of dark surmising
Fly ripped black flags of skull and bones
Call to ships of memory
In voices dredged from erogenous zones

Places where the tide line glows plankton rich
In sentences fashioned from soap
While competitors legs upturned kick from the spirit ditch
No license required to catch these crustaceans
Not for the net-work-king
These trains don’t stop at low-rent stations

So pay the ransom, meet them in the alleyway
Watched by ignored CCTV
And don’t pretend you have a thing to say
Your voice transcended by cash machines
Isn’t nearly strong enough
To break through the patina of plastic dreams

The Icarus in My Blood

Icarus ~ Barry Windsor Smith

The wind bites my teeth here on the eyrie edge
Soldiers march in time below
A multi-legged organism designed to destroy
A world that doesn’t wait for thought
To reach escape velocity

I will fly from the eyrie with the wind in my teeth
Shit on the soldiers below
Their legs march a lie to the edge of the world
And the world doesn’t think to wait
For escape from our vociferous reach

So clip my wings O Daedalus, here on the eyrie’s edge
Bar my flight from murder below
Walk my legs back to the mouth of the labyrinth
Where the world won’t wait for my thoughts
To escape and reach a velocity…

…capable of reaching the sun

Dali's Egg ~ 5. The Stripper

John awoke from a fitful sleep, the bed was uncomfortable and hard, his clothes still felt prickly and dry, despite the sweat that covered his body. Darkness having fallen while he slept, the lamp that illuminated the entrance to his shack gave off a swampy odour and attracted a multitude of winged insects, all vying for their moment of fame and glory, all vying to go down on flaming wings to the ground where the non-flyers awaited their meat.
He shook the cobwebs of dreamlessness from his mind and rising, noticed that there was a fire burning near the tall tree in the centre of the clearing. Surrounding the fire, a number of the villagers lounged in silence, their eyes reflecting the flames.
John could hear the river singing and, in the distance, the surf’s murmured harmony as he ducked out of his shack and straightened to stretch his spine, his hands on his lower back. Looking up at the clear night sky he realised that there were no stars, just a vast black vacuum. He turned full circle and the sweat on his back condensed cold at the sight of the steely grey face of the moon that stared with hard black eyes at some point far out to sea. In the moon’s grey light John could make out a white hut on the top of the mountain that rose on concave slopes from somewhere upriver.
As he approached the circle of villagers he made out the figure of Dr Morose where he reclined beside the Oriental woman who had served him in the kitchen earlier. John also recognised the boy from the beach; the boy looked at him steadily.
The doctor smiled up at him and pointed to the mug of steaming liquid in his hand.
“Coffee Gabriel?”
“Thank you”
Morose nodded to the woman beside him and she rose gracefully and hurried off in the direction of the kitchen. His eyes followed the sway of her hips before turning back to John, “Sleep well old man?”
“Not really” John sat between the doctor and the boy from the beach, who looked at him with the same wide-open curiosity as before.
“Are you going to walk the chain?” the boy asked.
“What do you mean?” asked John to the general murmur around the fire.
“The chain?” the boy pointed north, rolling his eyes, “Some people leave here, the only way off the island is by the chain.”
“Where does it lead to then?”
“Nowhere,” Dr Morose cut in, “…In my humble opinion anyway.” He added in a tone that feigned unconcern. “And besides, the chain is way out there in the forbidden zone.”
“Mike said that anywhere else could only be better than here” said the boy to Morose, his expression defiant.
“Mike didn’t know when he was well off” replied the doctor, and turning to John, “So old man, did you sleep well?”
“Forbidden zone? Forbidden by who?” asked John, unwilling to have the flow of information diverted.
Morose smiled bitterly, “The powers that be have…”
A deep and echoing cough from the darkness beyond the clearing cut the conversation short. John jumped up, his escape reflexes singing wildly.
“What was that?”
Nobody laughed, but they all remained seated – tense and alert.
“Stripper” said Dr Morose staring into the flames “Nasty parasitic creatures; strip the body bare, leave nothing but the bones.” He looked at John, “Don’t worry old man, you’re safe in the light; their eyes are so sensitive that they operate in almost complete darkness, anything more than a lighted match causes them immense pain. Best bet is not to go walking around at night, stay close to the village and make sure your lamp has enough fuel before turning in.”
The woman returned with John’s coffee, she cast nervous glances into the darkness as she crossed the clearing.
“Thank you” said John as he accepted the hot mug.
“Saki will take you fishing tomorrow – show you the ropes, so to speak” Dr Morose glanced at the woman who smiled back at him, her eyes showing real affection. He turned back to John, “And just so you know, she’s spoken for.” He gave John a wink, as if to underline the seriousness of his words. “From tomorrow you can see what duty you have been assigned to by checking the rota,” he pointed over his shoulder to the clipboard nailed to the tree. Morose lit a cigarette, this time not offering, and exhaled a plume in the direction of the boy, he said, “Go and check that the nets are ready Adam”
The boy rose reluctantly and slouched off in the direction of the shacks. Morose raised his eyebrows at John, “Discipline Gabriel, its all about discipline.”

The tense tranquillity of the night’s fireside vigil was shattered by the appearance of a panicked figure at the clearing's edge.
"What is it Geoff?" asked Dr. Morose
“Strippers – they got Irene”
The villagers sat up tense, all eyes on Geoff where he stood in the red sand, hands shaking and jerking at his sides.
“Somebody do something please, we were just walking – it bit he neck, took her. Please help”
“Show me where you were when they took her” said John, grabbing a flaming torch from the fire. Geoff led John, Morose and the scarred man a short way down the path toward the beach.
The torches caused the forest to loom and veer with giant black shadows and green imaginings.
“We were just here when it took her,” Geoff pointed at the ground where a large splash of blood contrasted blackly with the sand of the path.
John plunged into the forest, the flaming torch held high above his head. He tried not to imagine the creature that had left the glassy smears of blood reflecting the torchlight on the carpet of dead leaves.
He broke into a crouching run, hopping over fallen trunks and small bushes, ducking to avoid the clutching branches. He followed the flattened undergrowth and dark smatterings of blood until, slowing briefly, he could hear something rustling and crackling away from him in the darkness ahead. He stopped abruptly as he became aware that the shape up ahead had halted and turned in his direction.
At the edges of the torch’s reach crouched a large and hunch-backed creature, its fur was matt black and it turned its face sideways on to John, keeping its large eyes averted from the light. The creature’s lips were stretched impossibly tight over a mouth crammed with oversized and perfectly symmetrical white teeth. The shiny blood trail down the side of the Stripper’s neck led John’s eyes to where the pale body of Irene hung in the creatures powerful arms. The gaping chunk of flesh missing from her throat made it obvious that he was too late – she was gone.
The Stripper belched deeply and quietly and on the wind of the belch came the words:
“What do you seek out here on the limits of consciousness John Gabriel?
Surely you did not come to deny us this bland and spiritless flesh?
These meagre treats are all that are afforded us here in the blackness.
We, like thee, are animals whose code prevents our straying too far from the path.
But we are ill equipped to live in the light, let alone to walk the chain.
This flesh is our eternity
This flesh is our curse”
The creature ran its bloody tongue across the edges of its teeth, it turned, and hefting Irene’s carcass it concluded
“Leave us be John Gabriel”
John could feel the absolute weight and gravity of the creature as it moved slowly off into the darkness leaving him speechless, sweat cooling on his body, the torch sputtering above his head.

Perfume on the Wind

Minutes –
As peeling paint demands the clock hand sweep at the pace of glass melting
Hours –
That stretch the shadows across the stepping stones of calendar pages
Days –
Named for gods who absconded late their powers lost to man
Months –
That fly through perfumed halls of future planning
Seasons -
For Trees that shrug the leaves of summer lately turned to rust
Years –
Where changes accumulate in increments of perceived wisdom
Decades -
Foundations bloom on dirt paths tread by the phantoms of my youth
A lifetime -
And petals fail to decorate the core so long left its own beauty to assert