If I give everything I am to you what will be left to sustain me in the afterglow of rapture; to quiet the hunger beneath my skin when the inevitable untangling of tendons leaves me astray of those who once called my harbour home; an empty shell returned to the careless arms of the ocean?
Poetry
As sure as every song starts and ends with silence no matter the delicious chaos in between, we will rise. As sure as the tide will kiss eternity at dusk no matter how many times it has been pushed away, we will rise. As sure as those with Hatred in their ear will tell us to stay down no matter that it’s them who long to fall, we will rise.
They hear the threat of her click-clacking approach long before they look at her, believing that she balances on blades for their pleasure when what she really wants is to be six inches closer to the sheet of glass above her head with visions of destruction; a kaleidoscope of possibility.
Every time I write my name and feel your lineage draw me into the earth like the great roots of a tree, I wish I’d thought to bring an axe so that I may let fly the blood-red sap they harbour, loaded with the acidic tang of bitterness that could burn me to absolution.
They talk of getting blood from a stone but what of finding a single star in a constellation, luring the tip of an iris from beneath a lid, or birthing a voice from years of gestation? Perhaps some cocoons are just too warm to leave; some secret wings too paper-thin to last against the bite of the wind. Better to live in the shadow of a coward’s heavy lungs than face the wrath of lips that will not accept betrayal. “Gone is gone,” they say, your words weaving themselves into iron bars of no return.
It’s a sorry state of affairs
when slipping into nightmares
is preferable to an evening
in front of the news;
the absurdity of fiction
an easier guest to accommodate
than the truth that lurks
outside the window
begging for attention;
tap, tap, tap.
They bundled her into the back of the police car; all six feet of her Amazonian beauty marched to a whispered soundtrack of accusations. I couldn’t tell if the click, click, click was the sound of her heels on catwalk-concrete or the readying of fingers on canisters of pepper spray; the look of discomfort on her face the sign of embarrassment or a need to empty her bladder. Perhaps it was both.
Round the grandest table a war of words raged on,
the baying masses thirsty for their truth
with impatience in their eyes and malice in their hearts.
“Tell us of our place,” they said. “Tell it loud and true.”
First to stand was Silver Fox whose effervescence shone.
She told a tale of song and dance, companionship and awe;
of land that rose beneath her paws to float upon the sea.
“And so it was done,” they said. “And so we shall believe.”
But Lady Suharina stood and calmly cleared her throat.
She told a tale of vengeful blood dripping from her blade,
brandishing the evidence to prove her story’s worth.
“And so it was done,” they said. “And so we shall believe.”
Then came Goddess of All Things, beside her serpent beau,
who told a tale of Cosmic Eggs upon the ocean’s waves
birthing sun and moon and stars; mountains, birds and trees.
“And so it was done,” they said. “And so we shall believe.”
Brahma was the next to speak, serene from where he sat.
He told a tale of nothingness, then life through thought alone,
of how he tore himself in two to pass the lonely days.
“And so it was done,” they said. “And so we shall believe.”
The learned man approached the crowds and spoke with clarity.
He told a tale of a great big bang, tremendous heat and light.
Fallen jaws and twinkling eyes were proof enough of fact –
“And so it was done,” they said. “And so we shall believe.”
From the back there came a voice, weary from the strain.
It had risen oftentimes, desperate to be heard,
for its owner had a tale to tell; it writhed and longed to burst.
“Silence, little girl,” they said. “We’re done with all that now.”
The hordes embraced the learned man, falling at his feet.
Hence came Silver Fox and Suharina, the Goddess and good Brahma
to pacify the silenced girl and wipe away her tears.
“Patience, little one,” they said. “Their truth is a fickle thing.”
Merry Christmas
It’s that time of year –
May the magic of Christmas
Call your heart a home.
—
Whether you are marking the occasion or not, and however you may be spending it, I hope you all have a lovely festive season.
No bodies on the beach today, no poster boys to cry for, but put your cheek to the sand and feel how it trembles with the heat of gunpowder. Caress it with your tongue and taste the salt of tears, the metallic tang of bloodshed. It was carried here in warning, so listen to the sombre song that drifts upon the waves. It speaks of death in the far and distant lands of Other; an unbreakable brand a slave to birth alone.
Callum McLaughlin 