From the Drugstore to Your Apartment, etc.
By
John Grey
FROM THE DRUGSTORE TO YOUR APARTMENT
on a bright street
you listen to
your own footsteps
as you walk briskly
from the drugstore
to your apartment
on a gray street
you hear nothing
but footsteps
not your own
as you walk warily
from the drugstore
to your apartment
on a dark street
footsteps are immaterial
and it’s breaths
that perk your ears up
as you freeze
to the spot
somewhere between
the drugstore
and your apartment
ah breath -
one heaves heavily
behind you
one chokes on your bones
MY TIME IS UP
I know you, she whispers.
You want my blood.
And so you plunge your fangs
into my throat,
connect me violently to your thirst.
You do not love me,
have no use for me,
other than as a spigot
from which you drink.
I can't help but bleed for you,
drip, drip, drip,
reddening your lips,
sapping the color of my cheeks,
downhill all your way,
in this devil’s darkness
that you’ve carved out of holy night.
Then, you leave me alone to blackness,
to the rise of a mocking sun.
I am nothing but a wound,
an ooze of yellow pus,
the dregs of my nectar.
WHAT I REMEMBER MOST ABOUT THE EXECUTION
The solemn hooded figure
of the executioner,
his iron grip on the axe’s handle,
the sun-blazing shine of the blade,
the thief on his knees,
face down on a wooden block,
the priest in black,
Bible pressed hard to his chest,
the stoic authorities,
the swelling blood-lusting crowd,
the sudden rise of the weapon
high above its wielder’s head,
the fierce swing downward,
the thwack of contact,
the splatter of blood
as flesh severed,
bone cracked free,
at the site of severed flesh and bone,
the head rolling one way,
the rest of the body toppling the other,
the mob cheering,
the priest praying,
and then, most memorably,
some citizen pushing forward,
grabbing at the dead man,
swiping his jacket,
ripping the shoes from his feet.
Those shoes, that jacket…
they were all that my old man left me.
If it wasn’t needed
for the end of a skewer,
I could have had the head as well.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
By
John Grey
FROM THE DRUGSTORE TO YOUR APARTMENT
on a bright street
you listen to
your own footsteps
as you walk briskly
from the drugstore
to your apartment
on a gray street
you hear nothing
but footsteps
not your own
as you walk warily
from the drugstore
to your apartment
on a dark street
footsteps are immaterial
and it’s breaths
that perk your ears up
as you freeze
to the spot
somewhere between
the drugstore
and your apartment
ah breath -
one heaves heavily
behind you
one chokes on your bones
MY TIME IS UP
I know you, she whispers.
You want my blood.
And so you plunge your fangs
into my throat,
connect me violently to your thirst.
You do not love me,
have no use for me,
other than as a spigot
from which you drink.
I can't help but bleed for you,
drip, drip, drip,
reddening your lips,
sapping the color of my cheeks,
downhill all your way,
in this devil’s darkness
that you’ve carved out of holy night.
Then, you leave me alone to blackness,
to the rise of a mocking sun.
I am nothing but a wound,
an ooze of yellow pus,
the dregs of my nectar.
WHAT I REMEMBER MOST ABOUT THE EXECUTION
The solemn hooded figure
of the executioner,
his iron grip on the axe’s handle,
the sun-blazing shine of the blade,
the thief on his knees,
face down on a wooden block,
the priest in black,
Bible pressed hard to his chest,
the stoic authorities,
the swelling blood-lusting crowd,
the sudden rise of the weapon
high above its wielder’s head,
the fierce swing downward,
the thwack of contact,
the splatter of blood
as flesh severed,
bone cracked free,
at the site of severed flesh and bone,
the head rolling one way,
the rest of the body toppling the other,
the mob cheering,
the priest praying,
and then, most memorably,
some citizen pushing forward,
grabbing at the dead man,
swiping his jacket,
ripping the shoes from his feet.
Those shoes, that jacket…
they were all that my old man left me.
If it wasn’t needed
for the end of a skewer,
I could have had the head as well.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, City Brink and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Subject Matters”,” Between Two Fires” and “Covert” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Hawaii Pacific Review, Amazing Stories and Cantos.
