Anger March

The cracks in my skin weep. The fracture lines glow red hot and ooze thick acidic tears along my charred flesh.

Hissing and bubbling trails drip, drip, drip to the ground leaving rings in the puddles at my feet.

My fiery flow is like lava cooling into stones and I leave behind an echo of my chaos in my wake, hard memories full of holes.

My body mutates with each step taken in my anger march.

The ugly creature I have become bears no resemblance to my former self. There is no path back, a way to heal the land I’ve scorched.

The only way to end my wave of destruction is to burn out.

Eventually, I will find my final phase in rest, as a reservoir of cold regret.

Tinamarie Cox

Bio: Tinamarie Cox lives in Arizona with her husband and two children. Her work has appeared in several publications, and she is also the author of a poetry chapbook, Self-Destruction in Small Doses (Bottlecap Press). You can find more of her work at tinamariethinkstoomuch.weebly.com, and follow her on Instagram @tinamariethinkstoomuch or Twitter @tinamarie_cox.

On The Other Side

‘This is not a drill,’ he grinned Brandishing his Black and Decker ‘We have to keep them out And us, in.’

Turns out he was serious So convinced was he Of the imminent end of days, it seemed The only sensible thing to do As far as he could see Was to make a den Impenetrable and fortified

She could not persuade him otherwise So she became complicit In the hoarding Of tinned goods and bog roll Pasta and Pot Noodles Medications and bandages

In the boarding up of every window Using the Black and Decker to Firmly screw planks in place

(It was not a drill)

In the cutting of the landline umbilical The smashing of the Wi-Fi router And his custom-built computer Relinquishing the link To the life outside his head

And he knew that generator

Boot sale bargain from yonks ago

Would come in handy

Once he figured out

How to wire it up

So they decamped to The old coach house

Adjacent to their rambling Tudor pile

Because it was safer

Less prone to attack

One way in, one way out

Sturdily immovable oak doors

No windows

But one night

Saddened and scared by his wide-eyed truth

One too many tales

Of flame-sworded angels and judgemental

Saucer-eyed aliens

She stole out of the yet unboarded Back door while he slept

Took the Black and Decker

Barricaded him in From the outside

Ran, and kept on running

On the other side

Forming a sad right angle

Between doors and floor

Slumped, awaiting her return

He knows it’s a forlorn hope

Dave Kurley