Receiver
Lying in
the post-dawn glare through drawn curtains
I first
hear it in my right ear. Not tinnitus, no, not that.
A
machine-generated morse, too fast to copy, impossible
to record
and slow down for later transcription, far more
complex
than dot dot dot, dash dash dash, dot dot dot
on fast repeat.
Not a terse message, sent as a burst
not fast
enough for that. No, someone is trying
to message
me through the fillings in my molars –
an alien
transmission from light years in the past
to say ‘We
are here’ and to ask ‘Where are you?’
Reverie
on The Chair Factory at Alfortville by Henri
Rousseau
Someone has left a
giant's chair at the edge of the water,
big enough for the
owner to sit in and soak his corns
or bend down and
scoop up crustaceans for breakfast.
A little fisherman,
with rod and bait at the wharfside,
has been casting
his line all night, catching nothing
and now this neo-Goliath
is in position on his throne,
laughing as he
lands all manner of piscatorial delights.
A lady watches from
the promenade, lips smacking,
Her long tongue
whiplashes out, like a chameleon
catching flies. She
snatches crayfish from the Titan.
They stick to tastebuds
as if drawn to a Velcro magnet.
She gulps down the
raw flesh, pincers still snapping,
burps and chortles
as the big man secretly weeps.
In Transit
The detonation first – and then the portal
locks at the echoing retort. He swivels,
watches the wheel spin clockwise to seal
the tunnel behind him. It begins to feel
like a submarine now, as aftershocks rock
the walls and his innards begin to shake.
Festoons of spiders' hammocks dance
above his head, wafting into the distance.
It’s dark but he can see the ghostly webs
well enough, as shivers break his trance.
With a galloping pulse, he takes a chance
to inch ahead, one man's tentative steps,
as the arachnid cribs continue to oscillate,
fade from dawn grey to the dead of night.
Visitations
The female blackbird
lands,
head cocked, on the
lawn,
waits for more of her
victim
to emerge. A
millimetre more
and she drags a
writhing worm
from heavy clay,
flies to the nest.
A male kingfisher
perches
on an overhanging
branch,
watches for lunch to
turn up.
With a twitch and a
snatch
he swipes the
stickleback,
takes it home for the
chicks.
The man in the suit
shuffles
along on his way to
the office,
not anticipating
anything
outlandish to disrupt
his day,
until he’s located,
monitored,
sampled, analysed,
assimilated.
Managed Invasion
You
asked about our latest insertion.
Next
to the second post on the right,
you'll
find them, alongside the footpath.
Sorry,
we can't say which footpath.
You
should be able to work it out
for
yourself. Think about it.
Each
of them will be lying
under
a well-preserved fossil
that
we are careful to turn over.
They’ll
become cribs, cocoons,
little
tumuli, henges, whatever,
to
keep them dry, out of view
until
the appointed time. Kids
don't
collect gryphaea now
so
the shells won’t be disturbed.
If
you work out where they are,
you
may, of course, look at them
but
do replace the devil's toenails
after
you have observed
what
they are harbouring.
We
won't activate them for a week
so
you still have a little time
to
track down their whereabouts
before
they go walkabout.
Sharon Larkin’s poems often begin with a visual stimulus but soon become ‘infected’ with psychosocial concerns, as is evident from her poems in ‘Interned at the Food Factory’ (Indigo Dreams, 2019), ‘Dualities’ (Hedgehog Poetry Press, 2020) and over 200 poems in anthologies, magazines and e-zines.
A former civil servant, she now runs Eithon Bridge Publications https://eithonbridge.com, edits 'Good Dadhood’ ezine https://gooddadhood.com and blogs at 'Coming up with the Words' https:/sharonlarkinjones.com.
Sharon has degrees in literature/art history and modern languages, as well as an MA in creative writing. She is proud of her Welsh ancestry and enjoys photography, the countryside and the natural world.
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