Month: Jan 2014

Free-Range Fantasy [sonnet]

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I’m wondering if some change in DNA
(the only explanation I can find)
has spawned so many flaky chicks today
by which most roosters now feel undermined.
It’s getting hard to find a stable cluck
in any modern trendy free-range brood.
Plus many don’t make love but only fuck —
off-putting poultry full of attitude.
But yet, I have this little fantasy
(which friends have said is futile and absurd)
that somewhere there’s a clutch (not KFC!)
wherein one finds a true Arcadian bird.
I scratch the earth — not just to find some grains
but chickens without flakes stuffed in their brains.

© Alan Morrison, 2014

Merge [sonnet]

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Cautious smiles flickered on her wounded lips
behind the fire curtain drawn across
her face. There is a wariness which drips
out of her pores. I sense she’s suffered loss.
I know her pain (I think she knows I know);
but neither of us states the way we feel.
Thus, to prevent the fact that hurt may grow,
we hold back and our longings we conceal.
This gentle soul’s been bruised and left to die.
Am I, alone, the only other soul
to see her scar and want to sanctify
its cells and melt her shell and make her whole?
It’s long since I have felt this sacred urge
to take a woman in my arms and merge.

© Alan Morrison, 2014

The Gift of Despair

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“He fumbled again for his notebook. He remembered when it was new, when he had looked at it and said: “One day you will be dog-eared and dimpled, filled with substance and inconsequence, like an obese cadaver on a mortuary slab”. He noticed some words scratched into the back page from an inkless pen:

I am the hypocrite of a thousand petals
The hole of my life is the empty
eyeball grimace of a skull
I am a ragged flower
A hybrid of deadly nightshade
Of foxglove phantasies
Of morning glory
Of unfantastic gloriousness
I dwell in the suburbs of hell

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