I FELL ASLEEP ON A SAPLING

I fell asleep on a sapling

and awoke

much later

to find that it had grown right through me

To pull myself free would open me up,

pouring torrents of life onto the forest floor

To cut the sapling out of the ground

would be to sever something alive inside of me

to feel it die

and wither

inside of me

So I remain where I am,

craning my neck and twisting my head

to gaze upwards as the sapling

becomes a mighty tree

At first my friends

bring me tuna salad sandwiches to survive

but I soon learn to take nourishment

from the roots,

pulling up nutrients
from the rich soil

into my body

I swap out blood for chlorophyll

and a basement dweller's pale complexion

for a soft healthy green.

I glow.

Upon reaching the doorstep of heaven,

the tree looks down,

suddenly aware of itself,

horrified to discover it has a living human growing through it

and casually brushes it away

Cast off by the tree

splayed open

for all of the forest to see

my life begins to ebb away,

all colours draining

save for the red hot shame

but nothing is wasted in the forest

Before too long,

my open cavity becomes host

to thriving cities

My insides are once again teeming with life

a torrent of infrastructure

and insect bureaucracy

My temporal body soon to be replaced

by networks of honeycomb

paper nests and royal jelly

killing fields of spiderweb

yet always at the centre,

an ever-beating heart
blanketed with moss

UNDESERVING OF MERCY

My peripheral vision is swarming

with obscene gestures

cast,

like spells,

by cyclopean witches

Half-blind hags

with no depth perception

thrust their fingers into the air

with the conviction

of the persecuted,

the drowned

and the burned

the coven closes in,

encircling me

like wild turkeys

performing funeral rites

for a dead

street cat

I pray for mercy

I don't quite deserve,

I’d accept even transformation

I'll live as a frog,

I welcome the trials and tribulations

of a pollywog

anything

but the fate

to which these women are destined

chained

to the blackened pine,

the smell of their own flesh cooking

The only devil

they consorted with,

the one in the hearts of the fathers and brothers

who will light the match,

watch the show,

then

content with a job well done

retreat to their empty homes

settle into their straw beds

immune to the dreams

that guilt can bring

each with a plucked eye
under his pillow

AN ACT OF MURDER

I have committed an act of murder.

My Super-Ego had become

overbearing

and abusive

so I killed him.

I had to.

It was an act of self-defence

but

it was murder.

I killed him with a

rubber

jeweller's hammer

It took a long time.

A very long time.

At one point during the murder,

we both got bored.

But after hours

of steady

rhythmic

blows

he finally gave in

his final death rattle

clamouring

from the shale of his throat,

a cloud of

volcanic ash

Slick and

covered in viscera,

the makeshift placenta

of my rebirth,

I manage a smile.

I am free.

My Super-Ego is dead.

I buried him behind the shed

where I keep 'Intro to Calculus'

and inappropriate schoolyard touches

It's just me and the Id now.

For someone afraid of heights

and prone to motion sickness,

life as a rollercoaster has been

an adjustment.

I am delirious with joy

and vertigo,

waving a victory flag

and an airsick bag.

I'm sure that I speak for us both,

me and the Id,

when I say it's as good

as he said

it would be.

As we brace ourselves for the next descent,

the spiral and the corkscrew,

he grips my right hand

tightly with his left.

In his other hand

he holds

a sticky

rubber

jeweller's hammer.

And he smiles.

WHEN I WAS 10

When I was 10

I wanted to be an artist

but I was slow

and clumsy

and I had nothing of value to say

When I was 20

I wanted to be a punk

but I had too much respect

for personal hygiene

and authority.

When I was 30

I wanted to be a goth

but I loved the sun.

Now I am nearly 40.

I make a living as an artist.

Perhaps at 45

I shall be an anarchist,

a salt and pepper blight to a government

gone fascist.

At 55

I'll be a vampire,

taking refuge in darkness

blood

pine and soil.

And finally, at 60,

I will have something of value to say

to my clumsy

confused

children of the night

who snicker at the notion

of some mortal coil.