Issue 7: Carl Griffin
It is ill-fitting. The emotion
one can cover in a single breath
is neither here nor holed up
in the dunes or warrens.
I'm fully clothed. Considering
the heat, it is in bad taste.
I'm afraid of countless feats
but these are the obstacles
I mull on as a rule. My trade
is to comb the wastelands,
for scrap, in the smoke of bonfires,
and my best friend is a ghoul.
Pique buckles mien, until clifftopward
trek the irenic anarchic. Is there reward
in outliving victory? Not born quitters
we age and are drained of doggedness.
Contaminate a man’s tenacity
and he samples lunacy. Finding an ally
we divvy up enough lionisms to trek back.
No one has bleached the sink or stocked
the refrigerator, but we’re buoyed to be indoors.
You might have joined us being lost,
overseeing quagmires and other graveyards,
but we’ve rechristened nearby trunk roads
and encroaching swards, though visitors
braving the desolation now all bring cameras.
Digging With Spoons
Tract irrigation, or two striplings
with scuttles, swamping scuffed grass
with stream water. A scamp, sucking
woodlice from tendrils through a straw,
simulates his view: God kicking in motion
the Big Bang then jump-starting evolution.
With maturity we bin his input,
both advocates shaking a stubbled head.
A picnicker’s preference, a tandem spot,
is now thawing muskeg. Observe either
for decades. The artistry of this planet:
The natural disasters which obliterate it.
Just as Christians are cynics
regarding science, though technology,
like medicine, like the hydroelectric,
may be a baksheesh, might be divine.
The scamp keeps tabs on the striplings
from a trackway, like waxwings
or endangered setts, venting if The Deity
doesn’t re-flood the globe
we will, albeit DIY, slipshod, inadvertently.
Carl Griffin is from South Wales, and has had poems published in Magma and Pulsar, among other magazines and e-zines.