Young Toby McManners is gaming alone
Slaughtering his friends with a Fortnite drone The Last Man Standing is within his grasp When his door slides open with a terrible rasp ‘Do not disturb!’ he screams all ironic But Disturbed has a list, and his name is on it A flip and a trip and a slap round the back And Toby is swapped for some coal in a sack Mum hears a thump while she’s scrolling on Twitter She drops off the feed in a flurry of glitter Storms down the hall and discovers the scene A GAME OVER tag flashing up on the screen And a sack full of coal where the poor boy got took She bites back a sob and updates her Facebook ‘Toby is missing,’ she types all red eyed, ‘it’s a sad day for sure, but at least he’s outside.’
#not for Christmas, but for life
It’s late Christmas Eve on Winterbourne Road
The snowfall is crisp and shockingly cold When up on the rooftop of number eight A scrabbling wind knocks some ice off the slates And from out of the darkness rides folklore and fear In a pale, wooden sleigh with six ghastly reindeer He steps onto the lawn in a slithering mist Then flicks a wry smile and pulls out a list He checks on it once and stops by a name Takes a glance ‘round the street and checks it again Then he shoulders a sack, leaves the reindeer untied Kicks down the front door and heads on inside He picks up a scent like the stuff of nightmares Gives a self-assured snarl, and bounds up the stairs His breath is all primal, he’s covered in lice He’s not on the hunt for a kid who’s been nice
ee the dawn’s
on slate-sky borrowed
from a fractured night
this perilous fight
so willingly ours
And the brave
c ame in throngs
and talked of rockets
and of silent bombs
In the pale
the breeze that concealed
our flag was still there
And the free
starved of breath
struck up the gallows
and clamoured for death
Here we stand
hate is a hunger
so furtively torn
Dragons, knights and bewildering sub clauses. What more could you want from a Thursday evening?
Dawn scatters these abandoned skies, cankered in memories of bone and burned outcast grey with the clinkers.
I say do as you’re told
Reborn days blink ashtray eyes, another nightlight outgrown and called into flesh by the fragrance of stinkers.
when you’re alone with the enemy
Torn dolls in hearsay lies, tales of rag and truth postponed and woven silk into the control of blinkers.
dance on the stolen road
Worn blank the replay dies, futures carved deep in headstones and riddled into the moss of night thinkers.
kiss away autonomy
Sworn to betray goodbyes, the rise and fall of empires condoned and sealed tight in the crushing of whimpers.
drink the lead in boiling gold
Mourn away doomsday cries, hopes flee overthrown and we who would be gods go crawling with the death of drinkers.
and find nothing but the silence of alchemy
The sullenness of blue holds tight to the moon today. A jackal sketched transient, I am tied in orbit just the same. There are tales they say, of a darkside that no one but distant explorers would be surprised to see. Truth and territory, staked in tricoloured folds and pinned to look like the wind. And I wander in the silver of spent firelight, waiting for the storyteller. Waiting for the story. Something unfathomable to hold between my fingers. And the satellite of sunshadow, breathes silent answer with the death of words. Child. Walk with me. Dream with me. Come taste the chalk dust that falls so softly between the pillars of small steps and giant leaps. Damn moon, always was a troublemaker.
©2017 Jac Forsyth
*moon image courtesy of pintrest.com
serve up the banquet of spring
with bulletproof smiles.
Berries, sweet with craven plague,
and the starved wait, blindfolded
Spring & Berries prompt from: Ramblings of a writer
Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And I have wished for sharks in this lost at sea.
My skin peeled back to bone, are we born like this, forged again in the honesty of dragons?
Life is not a choice. Death is buried with the boxes. I count its intimacy in raindrops.
On days like this I would surrender to the fall of familiar fever. Overrun with shaking, heart racing, sweat dripping.
Even now I taste it on my lips.
Hell is patient. Spike another drink. Deal the drugs of madness.
Creepers stand silent in white nightdresses. And deep underground, a self prescribed king double drums and dreams of quarantine.
©2017 jac fosyth
in summer starlings
sky-flesh falls, wild with tattoos
but even here, here
on this ground of melted snow
I cannot hide my footprints
Summer & Snow prompt from: Ramblings of a writer
Truth is a cunning dancer. Smoke over fire, its drums beat out my heart. And I quantify my verdicts with the naivety of their restless pounding. Armageddon was scattered once, dismantled in the bunkers of preparation. I drive this life hard. Peace is not enough, sleep is not enough, death is not enough, for those who chase extinction. The gunman pulls another trigger and a dozen night-birds corrupt with the echoes of my lament, their feathered artillery dragged out across the silence of 3am skies.
And wrapped in the blankets of my insanity, I divide by five and measure their distance in lightning storms.