Patricia Walsh: “Freak Show Saga

Freak Show Saga

by Patricia Walsh

Being quiet on delicate matters, love permitting white flowers cascade on the windowsill the designated day off calls the blink missed this artisan audience knows better than that watered and fed under cover of critical mass.

Fearing ruin over breakfast, newspapers as well, coffee sunk slowly, more lukewarm the better, sharpening appetite on a watery diet purchasing freedom on back of a blood test loving, like a rock, caring little for decorum.

Called by the wrong name, invited to a table apologised to, the dark veins of a friend, cracking down on entitlement, this allowing producing books only the select will read that is enough, as is said, for another day.

Being looked after is all that truly matters, seethed though Facebook, awaiting the train, inexistent crises rummaging in losing handbags conserving food in face of disastrous teeth looking pregnant, unproductive, in an age’s heart.

Typing up bygones, the better for wear, again startled out of time, being the more mature accepting oneself as per se, free travel abound as much on the one page, constraints being destroying all knowledge of previous incarnations.

City Brink 81

In the Air

by Glen Armstrong

82 City Brink You’ve called out for someone to wipe the blood from my lip. Because you need my hands

in the air where you can see and admire them.

I get it. You need me

to be your beautiful tree.

Lay down your service revolver and climb me.

Rise above this slurry of red and blue light to a better place

where you can swat down zeppelins,

box kites and the hummingbirds that have hurt

and confused you.

The Year of the Sea Monkey XII

by Glen Armstrong

We continue to walk, and the road’s edge softens so gradually that the elsewhere

we imagine comes early, and though it takes hold gradually, it comes on strong.

It curls our hair. And knocks our socks off. I offer my sweetheart a toffee.

A rescue drone buzzes overhead. We could really go

for a field of red flowers or a city off in the distance about now.

This is the wreckage of something never built. Each fork in the road thus far

has been a kill switch for half of that which avails itself to us.

City Brink 83