IN A LITTLE CORNER OF NIGHT-LIFE
Far from the pulsating clubs and bars,
in local Bohemia,
miscellaneous authors
read from their volumes
of blood-soaked see-through poetry,
with their usual line
in bad sex and bitterness
acquired second-hand
in that great flea market
of personal relationships,
all fraying and fragile
with just enough light in their darkness
to put pen to paper,
with flimsy words that struggle
to fit together,
before the audience switches off
with gentle applause,
an occasional sigh,
self-pity and cell phone rattle.
I’ve been a reader.
I’ve been a listener.
I hate talking to myself.
I hate hearing
what I have to say.
THE SWEAT OF MEMORY
The cellar has that glacial feel.
Especially in summer.
A tub of beer and ice awaits.
I grab a can, feel the sweating coldness
of what it’s like below.
I sit on the porch, pop open the beer,
drink so chilled it hurts the teeth
but what a nose-snub to the heat.
The earth is ripening.
Trees are robed deep green.
The grass keeps an inch or two ahead
of the next burst of rain.
Weeds do their best imitation of flowers.
And the breeze, such as it is,
curry-combs the petals.
The sun is at its zenith.
Even the shadows are bright.
Despite my relaxed position,
everything is in the now.
Any reminiscing, in these temperatures,
will have to be hard won.
The season barely leaves space in my mind
for old swimming holes, ball fields,
all the stuff I did on days like this.
As far as August is concerned,
I only ever sprawled in a chair.
So why remember the past
when it’s just another version of the present?
But there were ponies, I’m sure of it.
And a forest floor. A waterfall.
There were balls thrown
and balls sought in the tall reeds.
And fish. And reptiles.
I’m begin to doze.
A dream awaits.
It will replace all those other dreams
that I thought I could hold onto.
THE DANGERS OF SEEING SOMEONE
What if she is
one of the undead
and all those hugs,
those kisses,
are mere prologue
to her draining me of blood.
And if,
while seducing my resistance
with hypnotic crimson eyes,
she bit into my throat,
began sucking on the veins.
Would I be
too caught up in feeling it
to be fighting it?
Would she empty one vein
and then the next,
draining my power
along with my will,
wilting my body down
to unkneaded dough,
paling my face ghostly?
It’s always a risk
when I’m close like this.
I could be vampire prey.
I could be making
a commitment.
THE BULL
Its girth is that of a hippo
and on any dirt track it walks,
heavy hoofs kick up white dust.
Night closes in
and fireflies blink emerald green
among the magnolia blossoms,
owls hoot mournfully to each other,
but the creature heaves its huge bulk
across the field,
and can barely contain his indifference.
It is as if nature doesn’t exist
but for dew and a hundred aromatic grass scents.
The thump of his heart
and the distant lowing of cows
are the borders of his universe.
In warm night air
that still reeks of the day’s sunshine,
he enters the barn,
head held high
in the usual triumph.
He is a stud who has, long before,
evaded the butcher’s knife.
His owners hang off the fence,
watch their prize
as he dallies at the water-trough,
chomps on some loose hay.
They are in awe of their own bull.
For there is no human equivalent.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.
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