Fear in the Eyes of the Crocodile
Give me the time, I will tell you of fear in the eyes of the crocodile- Black and lifeless, Summing up, stalking While frozen in terror I stand My son falls into Brackish water And takes, does the crocodile, my boy. My arms they flail, They beat about on Water’s cold dead face; Parting the deep, Revealing small children, And surrounding them, the crocodiles, Their bodies long Twisting slow in the ice. So, I carry these children Across, one dying step at a time; Yet, still I sense The crocodile’s black eyes On me damning, hunting, burning Me with this hate; Promising me that, Come the spring, he will find us again. My boy clings fast To my freezing body as we make our way across Evil waters To stare, time and again, Into hungry, black, lifeless eyes.
Blood, pitter patter, at right angles From his chin to the floor falling. Perfect circles. Perfect circles. Naked body splayed out before him- Science pig opened up, pinned down, Strewn about for present eyes to see. And the blood, the blood, squeezed like juice From some unnamable piece of flesh Gripped tightly between his fingers. The cherry popped, a virgin no more With no fear, life no longer a dream; But a fantasy to be revealed, to be Reveled in, basked in, rolled in, bathed in This metallic, coppery taste Spilled in a surreal train of pictures Later to endlessly be replayed: Uncomfortable fumbling, discomfort, Unknowing fear lending to panic; Pain and torture, torture and pain… Gurgling, disbelieving death; But the money shot: so like God: Power, control, reality’s master. An experience so vivid, The memories, the film - a promise That next time would be all the sweeter.
Blood in the Sycamores
Between Noodle Dome and Stink Creek Out where our fathers hunted squirrels, Dead in the middle of Crater Wash Hard in the night, the moon waning Headlights blaze white over mud flats. Blood in the sycamores tonight Splatters wet, crying out innocent. Where we go, men were not meant to dwell. Hearts grow shocking cold in ugly work. Hands ill-prepared for wicked measures Blister on the rough skin of shovels Digging deep before the sun rises Dead in the middle of Crater Wash. Blood in the sycamores this morning Dried to black circles on fading leaves Made witness to passions of fallen men. Time rolls on in floods flowing over the Wash, Erases markers of makeshift graves Where ghosts reside now forgotten. Rumors once strong slowly drift away, Make secret what the stars have seen. Blood in the sycamores always Accusing from beyond the silent, Penitent men unforgiven. What we have done, what we have chosen Lies indelible in the record: A thorn gone festered in my mind For that night on Crater Wash. Between Noodle Dome and Stink Creek There is blood in the sycamores.
Peter Michael Bush is a mental health therapist in rural South Georgia. He spends his free time writing, editing and pondering his own existential dread. He has been involved with powerlifting for over thirty years and has been writing for longer than that. Pete has completed three novels but considers himself a poet first as that is where all of these high jinks began. His work has been published in Albatross, The Poet’s Pen, Dream Fantasy International, The Florida Times Union, Independent Ink, Midwest Literary Magazine, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature and Anatomy.
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