the leak
creaking wooden floors by the tattered window
that lets in the methodical breeze. it floats and
drowns the lantern that paves the way to
footsteps that no longer exist for me.
a flower blooms in the desolate soil so i
sigh in relief. the seed blossoms my protection
from the crack in the mirror downstairs.
reflections of a woman draped
in white, flowing in the harshities of
a Victorian landscape. drip drip dripping,
tapping on the steps. soon they will arrive
and rob me of my memories.
for now i sit in the foyer on the dusty
carmine couch, lit by the candle that
ignites ancient curtains and threatens
the phantom palace where i abandoned
my womb. lurking in the hallway with
the clock hanging on the hour, no one
listens for cries they cannot hear.
visitors hold onto my noose and
photograph my absence, terrorised
by the drip drip dripping on swollen
mouldy wood. report me, for you fear
what you cannot explain.
but the beams are drip drip dripping
to the swinging of the rope in
the attic where i abandoned my
womb.
some things are better left unexplained. let
them come in their batches
with tales of the tragedy
at the manor on the hill.
running away with their tails between
their legs and crosses banging
on their burnt chests from the drip drip
dripping of lies like classical song to
desperate ears, begging for my madness,
clawing at my pain.
haunting me for decades while they
curse my dreaded name.
reaping station
rattling tracks like buried bones from the morgue
to a graveyard wrapped in chain link membrane.
names etched in forgotten stones.
screeching from the halt at the crossroads
at the wasteland wretched in pain
of dehydration and fatigue.
steam gushes from the chasm of the carriage
with the soul writhing at the step of the train,
shedding what she knows before it’s buried.
cloak catches on a rusty nail. stare into his face–
an abyss, shackled by skeletal chain.
this is where good men go to die.
hop into my cab on a cloudy midnight,
head smashed through the window pane.
your eyes on the tool of a farmer
and crowds in alarm
screaming out his name.
this is where men go to die.
don’t panic, let it happen,
here he takes his claim,
shrieking at reaping station and hopping on again.
this is where we go to die.
lace dress
down by the waterway hidden in the brush of a
metabolist river feasting at the soil and the rotten
lamb
reeds sway by the lily pads with nature’s intricacies
crossing on the underside of a misplaced
branch
it rained only yesterday with the mildew spurting
near the willow—she points away away from the
mud
drowning the shape of a boot from the trail.
rust chips at a car door, glass sprinkled like
pumpernickel
breadcrumbs lost to eager ants carried away
as if lace flowing to the beat of forgotten
breeze
fogging up a crusted marshland lost
to leafy abyss and glovebox
maps.
hang up your crosses
light up your candles
don’t venture too far into
the boglands now.
hang up your crosses
light up your candles
now look away from
the torture of the broadcast.
deep into the dirt of the water,
how she swashes through in
bits
recent downpour masks the smell of
the blood seeped through holes of
lace
dress. off white dyed in barbarism and
sluggish filth brought forth in the
burial.
satanists and the outsiders
watch as the pitchforks
come closing in.
in the sunlight of a new morning
her dress flaps; a flag on a wooden
post
maintaining her eternal scream.
WORDS: Luke Reid
