15
John Moody Tarn Life’s a deep dark tarn rainwater filled, brackish still brown and chilly. When you’re scared and lonely standing tense upon the shore, you slap the water’s surface in your agitation. Provoking only chaos of cream and ochre scum. You stare — the ripples losing force dissolving in the depth of whisky tinted liquid. Oblivion in alcohol dissolving you in darkness only if you choose to — you can dive the tarn’s abyss taking you past the scare to the mud and rotted vegetation coiling at the bottom of the mountain.
Crystal plumage Fear is a lilting thrush, close to my desire. Fresh neurones grow like plumage filaments. In my sparking skull synapses fire In tune to thrush’s song. Forest flautists sing a change — booze for juice of elderflower, cream and smooth as a wood thrush breast. Old addictions fight a moult of feather, shedding crystal plumage, furling fast. Exuberant growth muffles throstle-song, easing threats for chaotic nature. Flaring brain connections transform bleak tones to rising avian rapture. When a nightingale thrush puffs her breast carols the contagious air, then she rests. * The title of this poem is taken from a film called ‘The Bird with the Crystal Plumage’ where one of the clues to the killer is the call of this rare bird, with a glittering plumage.
Tongue Where does my tongue lie? It lies the length of my mouth. Where did my tongue go when I slept? Into the misery of a defecated bed, suppository ridden hospital, looming figures bloated white; there to help not hurt, but not understanding my shitty shame that kept the stool in place. Where does my tongue go when I sleep? It slumbers deep, pooling the liquid of dreams reaching down the throat of my thought. Drenching the tension in my gullet. Where does my tongue lie? In a childhood lullaby, where it learnt the silent orgasm muscle-tense spasm of fear. Spread like a starfish face down on a shadowy bed, without words to explain discomfort and fear. There I lay in degradation that caught my breath and stilled the natural rhythm of my growth. Where does my tongue lie? In remembrance.
