Dark Dogs in the Morning

The darkness fell onto me like a fever
stirring – stripping and dressing in 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 – 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…

An Accident

News emerged yesterday lunchtime of a shocking case where a poem became lodged in the head of a luckless girl at a café in Thornton’s Arcade. Bystanders attempted to move her, but in the assessment of the first responder, the line breaks weren’t essential to the structure, so the on-site surgeon was called for, and arrived within the hour.

The golden thread had become entangled around the young poet’s pineal gland, leaving her in a very precarious position. After dealing with this, the surgeon then had an arduous eight hour task in disentangling the entire sea from the unfortunate poet’s frontal cortex.

We caught the surgeon on her way out of the theatre: “I am glad for my intensive specialist training in the matter, without which I am sure I wouldn’t have noticed that the protective tissue around the brain was being used as a metaphor for sleep”

I 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