Whose soft blue ghost comes here, darkness bruised blue-cold as dead moon’s aura (but with less face than moon) blue-hot as oven flames (but with more hurt than flames)? How swift belief seeps out, leaking light butter-slick through thinking’s fingers (but with less doubt than thought) butter-salt with terror’s sweat (but with more depth than fear)! What strange blue-gold is this, shadow-formed between the suffering and the faith (but much less sure than either) between the sorrow and the hope (but much more real than either)? Is it the flaming of the ocean star reflected in the moon-churned deep or just something from a book you read me too long ago to forget?
The Short Nap
Collar up and hat brim down. Dirty weather, dirty town. Viewed the stiff - it wasn’t there. Lame excuses, empty air. Faked his death, some two-bit crook. Hit men fooled, he’s off the hook. Next I know, he’s cornered me. I’m the Resurrection, see? Showed me all his bullet holes. Claimed he’d come to save our souls. Keep it to yourself, I said. On these streets the stiffs stay dead. Wouldn’t listen, had to top him. Sawed his head off, that should stop him. Guys, I ain’t no Bible-hater But couldn’t write “Long See-you-later”.
Simon MacCulloch lives in London. His poems have appeared in Reach Poetry, Aphelion, Pulsebeat Poetry Journal, Altered Reality, I Become the Beast, Emberr, Grim and Gilded, Ephemeral Elegies, The Sirens Call, Ekstasis and others.
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