Issue 29: AuthorName
Nursery Rhymes for Geraldine
fuck a loveity do da day
fuckity loveity duckity day
fuck-a-luck
love-a-duck lawks!
fuckity loveity doo daa
aye.
OLDE ENGLISH VERSE
Scat Heraclitus I
Summ’at of a gentrified jester
this iz-a-biz what
country, what hare-pigeons
What? I am packing
boxes with pale hair
already tied in ribbons, bewildered
Have we seen it yet? The movie
the hell real short-stop pumpkin
popcorn. Are we meant yet? The movie
The real movie is hell to pay for
Ah be slippin’ & crowns follow
my bump, bump down the stairs
a vendor selling enamel for nails
to harden maybe I’ll brush it on
my tears. Stop yourself they tell
you. I see no picture, what picture?
Focus frigger. Do.
In The Nursery
Forfeit it
the rhyme
beats down
like the sun
I hold it
it cries
I goo at it
it wets itself
& me
have to
change it
Mr. Wet-pants again.
Scat Heraclitus II
If Lima be willin’
sweet bean hurry me up
to the flower-tower
I engage drastically
C’mon, show me it is good
for now or
never in the next liberation
of the house of echo
hours fast forward & then
pause. Rope she is flaxen
molten crinoline with braided
trim, cower your arms
are over your head your
hands are holding each other
your uterus is endangered because
it is that much is all
lilly forgets. Rose for hate if
yellow, white if for death
becomes endless nights
for no-one in particular
Echo, wind that clutches
your heart like a coyote.
A Dittle
Litty
When the jade moon
of Tonga calls
for the last escape
we’ll be riding eggs
& entrails tick &
flow round as
mountains ripe
as grapes of rot
when we come
rip ash grave rot
welsh she strums
a cracked pot
when we come
When the dashing man
of the Shaved Head
smiles, his teeth appear
yellow & ungainly rousing
no rabble rouser finger laid
in the steaming depression fits
perfectly
we’ll be gluein’ bodies
strummin’ belly-bumpin’ round
the mountain strumpet
hound jello-grubbin’
when we come
When fossils made of ice
hang rusty & enchanted & ducks
have re-routed Stella falls
from the sky legs taut
lands on concrete & says
her head has not cracked
as these knees have
bruised on frozen piles of dog
manure & bright yellow
urine trinkles, steam rising up
in small but determined wisps
We’ll be shovellin’
shit ruby kraut save
shot round the mountain
Rub doubt crave sod
Wench, she comes.
[Sascha A. Akhtar has crafted six metaphysical poetry collections, a short story collection Of Necessity And Wanting embracing social realism and a volume comprising a biography and first time translations of Hijab Imtiazs' little known manuscript Adab-E-Zareen upcoming in 2022 with Oxford University Press. Akhtar is a Poetry School tutor and lecturer at the University of Greenwich. She performs internationally, some highlights include the Emirates Festival of Literature 2022 and Rotterdam Poetry Festival 2012. Latest writings appear in the Prototype Annual 4, Cut-Purse (Tangerine Press, 2022), Of Myths and Mothers anthology 2022 and Lucy Writers Platform. Akhtar has poetry forthcoming with both Intergraphia and Haverthorn Press.]
Copyright © 2022 by Sascha Akhtar, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author.
