On the Edge of the Asylum

On the Edge of the Asylum - David Hay

Take his ticket – his little book of poems,

his teeth are a fine cut,

snap them out one by one

hallelujah!

Money can always be made from misery.

Tell the tooth fairy she’s going out of business,

that will teach him to believe in beneficent powers.

Rows of bald men in suits of meat nod.

they are steadily crusting over with disbelief.

Let us crouch in the corner of his youthful ear

and whisper our dirty tales,

our sordid ditties of mental illness and extramarital affairs

accompanied only

by the cadences of the snake’s bodily violence.

Dreams should be harboured by no child.

There is nowhere to hide from the cynics’ sour breath.

Mark his tongue, that flapping flesh of syntax,

the great conductor of ego and inaccuracies

uttered by each idiot – is sprouting,

wart –like with madness.

Come,

let it swallow silence.

Let it swallow the memories of each year.

Let is speak of the future no more.

Let it remain unsatisfied by gin and chocolate cake.

He doesn’t know that there is no substitute for a mother’s love.

Laughable but ultimately tragic.

Awkward stares at patent leather shoes

everyone starts and ends the same.

The mirror is an eternal reminder

of the seasons incessant cycle.

I have examined his hands

they are not moulded by hard labour,

the veins, his veins should I say,

are no tributaries transporting the earth’s essence,

his are merely wisp of witches’ hair

flowing into the clear sky.

Why is he so scared? The bed is only the tomb for the old.

He has a lifetime of this shit left.

He will never recover the hours he has lost.

Still there is beauty, beauty in the shit.

But not much. Sometimes not just enough.

Written by David Hay

Comments

The Cement Mixer - Jon Doughboy

It’s 2002 and 2008 and 2012 and 2023 and the Millennials collectively, the entire generation, have rented a cement mixer the size of a global recession from Jean Twenge’s cousin who works in the building trade making a buttload of dough renovating subprime mold-farm homes and turning them into hot commodities with some fresh sheetrock and gentrification gray paint and a sheet or two of brightly-colored metal siding for “curb appeal.” On one side of the mixer is emblazoned the word “Time” in Vantablack spray paint. On the other, smeared in feces and blood, is the word “Culture.” The Millennials excitedly crowd around this two-named mixer like it’s churning out unviable yet charming third-party candidates. And this is no ordinary mixer. It’s state-of-the-art and the art consists of taking in hopes, fads, fears, archetypes, myths, and generation-defining themes and mixing them all up into something sturdy for future generations to crawl then ...

Going to Hell - Alex Kudera

The years raced by until I found myself standing on a street corner in China. I was in Xi’an, and I was in my wife’s old neighborhood. We lived in her tiny studio—a few narrow rooms, linoleum floors, hot pot and range, no oven or fridge. A plastic seat on the toilet so frangible, I broke it twice by sitting down. Twenty-first century living in yesterday’s mainland. An authentic experience in the world. But I was out for a stroll. This is what I loved to do—walk and look around. It was hot, but the neighborhood was out and about. A crowd stood alone or congregated on every corner. Laolao and Yeye claimed every spot on rusty metal benches shaded by trees. Many more people walked in the sun. They had umbrellas; I did not. In ten minutes, I strode around the corner and up the block. The sun’s bright rays seared my retinas. The heat beat against the pavement and splashed ...

Without Baggage - Sloan James

There is something to be said for peace. Harmony; always such an evasive little bastard. Too big for one person. It sticks in the throat or backs up your bowels. In some manner you are constipated by the efficiency of worldly connectivity. Things are cheap or things are old and stale. The airport felt like they usually do. The feeling of getting away, of going away, seeps into the skin and the blood and the mind goes wild. Before you know it, you’ve downed a full and non-repressed Xanax brick and a three quarter tab of buprenorphine before reaching security. The paranoia of sniffer dogs at your bags and pockets. The ques. The time. Always the time. The gate number. The flight number. The baggage, to check or not check? Oh, the bag’s too big? check it in at $70 like a fool. Legs sway you through security swipings and beepings. Adult sized x-rays like idiotic toys and stupid serious morons in funny uniforms who are this country’s last line of defence against TERR...

Soyos Shorts

Search This Blog