The darkness fell onto me like a fever stirring – stripping and dressing in the cold I picked up my phone, and wiped breath from it. Weak coffee. I left the house, slid doors, the dogs pressed against me – flickering buzzing, sparking – something was up but I didn’t know what. I set off
seeing the shoals of mist swim in morning dark where day is forgotten and the choral synthesiser drone of stars shook me, made me shiver – I drowned it out with my headphones. Walked out with my pathetic torch across the wood and farm-land in the mould black morning – marvelling at the absolute lack of magic, there in the dust-clump wood. I glanced around me, saw nothing thought ‘but wolves, but wild boars’ I smiled, took a fast pace down the bend to the flood-plain where I imagine the flesh-fade of dawn began to apply itself to night
Later on return – I left tracks in the forest frost grass from the mansion to the servant’s quarter – my breath was even more eager than I to get to the house, it ran ahead but stopped suddenly – a dead deer half, half-eaten, eyes open as the ground is open to the falling sat there, on the cold patio. Poachers only want the hind-half I later learned – I felt the cold fur brush past, long hair of the black dog – thought; you were excited for your find I left you behind. I’m sorry. She took the skull between her teeth and cracked it. From the cavity, the night came flowing back…
News emerged yesterday lunchtime that a poem had become lodged in the head of a luckless girl at a café in Thornton’s Arcade. Bystanders attempted without success to move her, but in the assessment of the first responder, the line breaks weren’t integral to the structure, so the on-site surgeon was called for, arriving within the hour.
The golden thread had become entangled with the young reader’s pineal gland, leaving her in a precarious position. After dealing with that, the surgeon then had an arduous eight hour task in disentangling the entire sea from her frontal cortex.
We caught the surgeon on her way out of the theatre, and she had this to say: “I am glad for my intensive specialist training in allusion, without which I am sure I wouldn’t have noticed that the protective membrane around the brain was being used as a metaphor for sleep”
We talked to a bystander on the scene. “It’s obvious people these days just don’t know how to use metaphors” they said. “In my day something like this never could have happened. That’s what rhyme was for! Poets these days think they can do without it, but look what happens! Just think, it could have been worse, it could have been a prose poem! I worry for the children”
In an attempt to understand the case more, I wrote this poem, which I am now trapped inside. Please send help