A Trip into Town
Soles slip on nazi grey
foreign face reflected in glass, pupils large and pebble black with Saturn rings. Even in the middle of the Café, clutching my cup, sitting on a busy nest of tables; in the shopping centre, herds heaving and swilling, girls giggling and babies screaming, phones ringing, store security alarms bleeping; I am never quite solid, the ridges of my arms and legs diffusing, bleeding into some oily liquid, then vapour, the hubbub repeating like some ritual noise or Witches chant, speaking in tongues,
dead as Latin.
Written by A.D.Hitchin, 2008. Published in 'Origami Condom' issue 7
continued...
Room with a View
Perfection bores me. I’m looking for flaws to fall in love with.
Morning-after creases etched on dreaming foreheads. Sweet crow fingers drawn next to sleeping eye lids. An interesting scar. Something that shows me you’ve lived. I like tired end of day faces with smudged black bags carrying things. Showing the day has been a gift. Like each day is.
Stretch marks turn me on I run my fingers over their ridges and feel softness. My lips enjoy a belly to kiss. Rich tapestries fascinate me. I search for authenticity wherever it lives. I see it lives in you.
Written by A.D.Hitchin, 2008
Something
She used to write her poetry in menstrual blood
said she didn’t want to feel like Plath ‘unloosening her bowels to nothing’
I didn’t know whether to admire her or be
disgusted, like the day
I saw a baby all pickled in a jar
squashed, deformed and lifeless with the faintest trace of a grin, cradled in lime green
fluid like some … alien
first I felt sickened but
then
I wanted to take her, wrap her up, feed her warm, micro waved milk and care for her, for something in that soft smile was beautiful, something
in it withstood all the ugliness and my
balls withdrew and for a moment
I imagined her safe upon my chest …
some may think that unusual for a man
but that day I understood.
Written by A.D.Hitchin, 2008. Published in 'Origami Condom' issue 7
Duct Tape
Black rubber goggles plasma lenses cold metal chair legs and arms buckled
so tightly the tips of his fingers grow grey blue needle pierces lumber punctures warm snake winds spine coils brain stem white coats
white coats checking systems
go
white coat with cursor pastes images of digital video the cursor is god now says one of the white coats other white coat checks emerald spike signs on monitor other white coat chuckles and watches over shoulder of white coat selecting video
he clicks and grabs clips and drops them in all women are abused subordinate some forced to drink piss others fuck rifles and various other artillery one forces a hand grenade up her anus wincing with pain while men with latex faces howl laughter through stretched mouthpieces strobe flashes corporate sigils he begins to struggle flinging his head from side-to-side in attempt to remove goggles no use he cannot close his eyes
they have been duct taped open
men fathers and brothers dragged from homes their skulls caved in carcasses dragged and thrown entrails trailing after them brand names people dying reading in libraries dropping blood splattered books still open a gas which kills only gays and lesbians product placement one hundred indigenous cultures die I look away
tears sting my eyes a white coat grabs my face tightly turns it and spits:
‘look at your son’
and he is jerking there in the chair his mouth open to scream but making no sound.
Written by A.D.Hitchin, 2008.
Antony Hitchin is a 31 year old English Literature Graduate living near London, England. Antony has been published in the UK Forward Anthology 'To Paint a Picture', the UK Journal 'Gloom Cupboard' and American E'zine 'Origami Condom'. He has recently had poetry read by the US Spoken-Word Artist Cyndi Dawson in New Jersey as part of her 'Poetry and Angels' events and has collaborated with both Cyndi Dawson and Bette O'Callaghan on recorded spoken-word projects. Antony regularly blogs new poetry at his myspace.
Last update : 05-07-2008 05:02
|
|
|
Users' Comments  |
|
Average user rating
 (0 vote)
|
|
Add your comment
|
Lit Circus 
