Wednesday's Child

Inspired by Pokémon Emerald, of all things.

This poem was featured in Best of Manchester Poets: Volume 3, published by Puppywolf in 2013.

An angry monster grumbles in the sky.
Brave Sir Steven puts on his magic cape
And says, "Quick, to the tower!"
But I don't want to walk that far,
Nor cross the treacherous lake,
Nor awaken the friendly dragon.
Can we not just sit and watch the weather
And think of all the people drowning?

Steven is way up there now,
Hands outstretched in the breeze -
To make it look like he's flying, I guess -
But his pillowcase cape isn't billowing.
I glare at him from the grass by the garden pond.
"Fine, I'm not playing!" he shouts.
He can have the climbing frame.
It's raining and I want to dig for worms.

Acedia

crashed into a hole

but you talk about the depth
in mute words
feeling just as soulless
as your television screen
with its timed adverts
and its talk shows
and you drown
and drown in mist

but you're circled by vultures
whose shrill cries
say get yourself together
since you should know better
so you go with exhalation
and reach for expiration
and long for oblivion
and twirl into night

until some shapeless change
rips apart the grey

Eden 2.0

The Gods poured stars into my hands,
Weeping boughs outstretched and bowed,
Joyously blazing, blistered by the sun.

I kissed Them thanks for this deadly treasure
And left the garden
Through the floodgates,
Clothed in glorious tears,
While a train of clouds followed my feet
With a songworthy clatter.

I'll no longer labour under Eve's vanity
Though I am but a human and a girl
And a grieving daughter.

You're Just Too Good For Me

I wanted to thank you for all you've done -

for ripping the voice from my mother's music box,
for burning my worthless antique violins,
for throwing me, laughing, into unwinnable battles,
for releasing your shrieking faeries in my cellar,
for letting needles and demons into my veins,
and, at the same time, since you multi-task so well,
for enriching my lungs with such fine monoxide,
for reducing my skin to precious shadows,
for putting a knife through my cheap old attention,
for blackmailing my wounds to make them sing that song you like,
for stealing my bones to sink them in the river -

and I'll give you a shining reference.