A TALE FOR HALLOWE'EN

Whether you believe it's true,
or you believe it isn't,
you're probably right...


I

Late August,
half past midnight.
A dense luminous fog
oozes from beneath
cemetery mausoleum doors
to roll slowly across the road
and into her garden,
gradually engulfing it
in opaque grey-green nothingness
that creeps ominously
up the house wall
and onto her balcony.

She wakes abruptly
from a nightmarish dream
to see him standing motionless,
so close to the locked doors
that his breath forms
a circle of mist on the glass.
His powerful, penetrating stare
paralyses her - she's
unable to move a muscle,
in spite of being acutely aware
of something probing the depths
of her consciousness.
A scream dies in her throat,
and she's compelled
to open the doors...



II

The night time has become
a million voices calling her.
One, far more bewitching
than the rest, sings a strange
hypnotic lullaby
that promises eternity;
drawing her ever closer
to his world.
The fog comes nightly now.
No matter how cold the air outside,
she makes sure her doors
remain ajar; for his
excruciating kisses
are tinged with an ecstasy
she has never known before.
She craves him
with an all-embracing hunger
that blinds her to the darkness
insidiously taking root
in the core of her Soul.



III

It's the debilitating weakness
that finally confines her to bed.
'Pernicious anaemia,' they diagnose.
'Complete bed-rest and iron pills,
combined with plenty of fresh air - so
keep the windows open at all times,
especially at night,' is their remedy.
(Although I'd have suggested
sealing them with fresh garlic
and crucifixes!
But this is century twenty-one
and no one believes
in folklore anymore.)

Why does no one listen
when she tells them
daylight burns?
Still they insist on opening
the curtains every morning,
in spite of these angry red welts
they can clearly see
appearing on the exposed flesh
of her arms and legs.
Their misguided response
is an accusation of  'self-harming'
and a demand for psychiatric assessment.

Her skeletal appearance
and zombie-like state,
combined with vomiting
when they force her to eat
convinces him that she's
'Classic text book case:
Eating disorder, most likely bulimia.'
Surely such a learned man as he
should realise she has no choice?
Solid food is no longer an option.



IV 

She passed away two months ago
and now lies buried
in the cemetery across the road.
Her devoted boyfriend visits daily.
He's here again this evening.
As the Sun sets, he whispers,
'I have to go now, my love,
but I'll come again tomorrow.'
And he lovingly places a bouquet
of white roses on her grave.
Suddenly, he's grabbed from behind
and a split second before long fangs
pierce his jugular
he glimpses two deep puncture wounds
in her lily white neck.

Cause of death:
'Unexplained heart failure - probably
brought on by grief.'
And his neck wounds?
'Accidental contact with rose thorns
as he fell.'

And to think we live
in such an enlightened age...















 

THE BOX

Resting on  dusty rafters
in the attic space
cocooned in cobwebs
concealed by darkness
lies a wooden box.

Inside, the story
of a short life
written in love
wrapped in grief
lost in time.

Today, unsealed
a wound revealed
a need fulfilled
in reconnection
to a child.

A teddy bear
stained with tears
and yellow drops
of medication
that failed to save a life.

Graveside cards
stolen from wreaths
their heartfelt words
faded and lost
but not to this heart.

A pack of nappies
never opened,
a babygro
that never clothed
a tiny helpless form.

But most poignant of all
the umbilical clamp
white plastic encrusted
in dried blood.
Is it yours or mine?

If yours then this
is all I have
of a precious baby girl
who lived nine months
inside of me
but a mere two weeks
in the World.

And how these bereaved
and empty arms
long to hold you still,
but I guess for now
your teddy bear
as a substitute must do
and with these often falling tears
I'm counting down life's years
until my time on Earth is spent
and I'm reunited with you.
 

ICE MAN

I wonder how I got here
until sleep amnesia retreats
and I recall that strange night sky

last night, how the aurora borealis
reflected in eyes the colour of ice,
stirring sensual desires;

how I so eagerly took the hand
that led me here
to this Reykjavik hotel room,

knowing every conceivable fantasy
that girlhood dared dream
was about to be fulfilled...




Lying here beside you this morning
in this dishevelled bed,
disbelieving, I'm moved

to run trembling fingers
through your tousled white-blonde hair.
You stir in your sleep

then gradually awaken
to my awestruck gaze.
Smiling enigmatically

you throw aside the duvet
to reveal physical perfection, naked
but for the soft colourless body hair

that last night brushed against me,
electrifying already heightened senses
to the point of no return.




There is so much I want to say
but I cannot speak your language,
cannot tell you how it feels

as you take me again now
to those cosmic heights - and beyond
to utter rapture, where

I'm no longer conscious
of two-day-old stubble
prickling my face;

nor of these two hearts
pounding in unison
as if desperate to become one.

But, then, who needs mere words
when bodies are so fluent
in the art of communion;

so skilled in their own peculiar language
at expressing that most tender of thoughts
'I think I love you.'



And perhaps it's just as well
I cannot voice my irrational fear
that our hot volcanic passion

will melt you like the icebergs
I can see through the window
glistening in the early spring sun.

 

REVOLUTIONARY

I am no parents' daughter ideal,
Not one to make them proud.
The proverbial sheep of black am I,
Controversial rebel "too loud."

I have no time for small-talk, etiquette,
Appearances or social mores;
And I'll never defer to elitist boys schooled
Behind closed Etonian doors.

Because who are these to formulate rules
When experience they clearly lack?
For how many of them have to scrimp and save
to put the shirt on their back?

Yet still they tax us right to the hilt,
Whilst feigning concern for our plight.
Do they really care about livelihoods lost?
I think not, for their future's bright.

So for this twenty-first-century girl
The revolution's begun.
It's time to take up verbal arms
And fight 'til the battle is won.

For I have this vision of a better life
Where there is no rich/poor divide:
No rulers, subjects, commoners or lords -
Just a Brotherhood Worldwide.


 

AFTERMATH

Heart of granite
shattered by visual torment.
Displaced fragments amass in his throat
threatening to choke him.
His chin trembles uncontrollably.

Implosion of silent anger.
That such sentimentality could lurk
undetected in his psyche
is unthinkable.
Anger becomes blind fury - towards that creature,
but even more so towards himself.

What does this make him?
A soft man-sized mouse
with jelly for nerves - exactly the type
he finds repugnant
and has so often ridiculed.
And he an ex-boxer:
stereotypical hard man,
iron muscled with scars that tell
of a thousand fights hard-won.
When had he ever been afflicted
with feelings?
Not once.

Yet standing here now
in this rain drenched street,
shivering and confused, willing
these fucking tears to dry up
before anyone notices;
he's no more than a quivering mass
of raw emotion - no, worse than that -
of gut wrenching empathy.

And all because of the sight
of something so tiny, so helpless,
that closely resembles a map
of Australia.
A thing completely flat and greyish,
outlined in bright red;
that moments ago
was a frisky squirrel
playing dare with his speeding car.