Gore poems by Kadhim Shubber illustrations by Ken Iizuka
A Girl Lay in the Desert Road; Motive Unknown Christmas Whiskey Hangover Cripple Occupy Everything Sorry Aurora Disturbing Daydreams Untitled Heckler
A Girl Lay in the Desert Road; Motive Unknown
Rubber squealed as we stopped, Maybe 10 metres away from where she lay, Arrogantly in the road.
I could see her clearly. Her pavilioned face betrayed the Stubborn anger of unrequited opportunity.
We had stopped for her now, At least. But only a moment of peace Endured and we drove off around her.
Christmas
I wear a strong coat to best the cold And step out into the frosted Christmas day. Long shadows drape the path into the village, Now subsumed by the eager town.
I meet a friend, and we take the short walk to the sea Towels o’er our shoulders, soon pebbles in our heels. Determined smiles precede the plunge; A memory I shall forever cherish.
Whiskey
I’M GOING TO DRINK WHISKEY I all
have day
spent
coked
up
up
on
cooped
on
caffeine;
a
chair
cowed
and
crimson
until
time
deigned
to
release
out
into
cornered
me
cramped up
carriages,
against
cretins,
creature
crawling
back cruelly boredom where, with
to cold
my camp
crucifies crucially complete
where
me
and and
certitude,
I HAVE A BOTTLE OF WHISKEY
Hangover
The dry mouth you get in the morning, When alcohol led to cigarettes again, Is just the start of a long day yawning, Waiting for Facebook photos of you and your friends.
The sweep is so much sweeter, Milk tastes like it did on day one. It’s hard to stay on your feet. You were younger Then; too old for all this fun.
Little victories, like walking up the stairs. The desire to seize up and sleep. Your body doesn’t like you, or care. You’re in hangover dungeon; your skin creeps.
Cripple
I’ll be a cripple when I’m older. That’s what the slips and twangs in my back, And the whips up my shoulder whisper.
My life will not start at sixty. I’ll never seize and throw my grandkids up in the air. (Or at the least, I won’t catch them…)
I’ll never rugby tackle a mugger, In a surprising show of elderly strength. My back, the bugger, will never get me in the local paper.
I’ll be endlessly amused, By my folding chair impression, and excruciatingly Ecstatic, when I stretch it out, once a week.
My bed will be the perfect height, For me to creep carefully in, and barely get Any sleep at night. I’ll never stop complaining about it.
I’ll be all alone, just my body and I. Him: blaming me for all the damage. Me: increasingly disgusted with every passing day.
I’ll have tons of regrets. (Only some about not sitting straight.) The rest? This, that, love and hate.
Occupy Everything
In the dark of the night, when I’m shivering cold, St Paul appears to me and he baptises my heart; he cleanses my soul. He breathes in my ear and he opens my eyes. He kisses my cheeks and washes my hair and my feet and my toes. And he whispers to me, “the Emperor wears no clothes”.
Sorry Aurora
“Another victim has been identified,” I declare with scarcely concealed pride; We suppress high-fives and return to the wires.
A tweet brings fresh meat, another name – search Facebook, filter public posts. “Ah, someone’s Posted in memory of their dead folks,” I boast.
Reddit’s discovered another gruesome fact. Lay back, let the worker bees of the hive Take up the slack.
A baby, a child, a guy’s last words to the web Before he was shot in the head – “Brilliant, ping it Over”. A splatter of colour on this gruesome tableau.
We all secretly want the apartment to blow. But not Just now, we think ourselves meek but are done for The week. Let the dailies continue the race.
He is the Joker – I am Two Face.
Disturbing Daydreams
Whenever I cross Battersea Bridge, with my right hand tracing the bolshy guardrail, I watch the cyclists nervously eyeing the traffic, as it rushes past; uncomfortably close.
I wonder what my reaction would be, if that girl, with her elegant black bicycle, were to be vacuumed up by the bus behind her, and spit out broken and red all over the road.
Sometimes I think that I would join her, by running across both lanes of now still traffic, shrieking and drawing their prying eyes away from the body, and throwing myself to a cold, clammy death below.
At the very least, I usually tell myself, it would make the next day’s Evening Standard, a riotously good read.
Untitled
All that I earn, I keep As close to my heart as the smoke From these clove cigarettes, And as necktie tight to my tongue As the sharp taste on my lips.
Except what’s taken to keep the streets Free from dissidents, danger, and deranged old Marxists with fists fixed to their lapels, oh Don’t hope; the only thing that’s red about Ken Is the ink on his notes.
But I wouldn’t say I earned this. And that’s Not taxable, and these are owned by My dear wife who holidays in France. 50p, 40p – how much do I pay? A Sir leaves not such issues to governments or chance.
Heckler
Ah, the heckler. Shouting from the back, drunk down on jack, and coke. Should have thought before he spoke, because now I’m Mack the Knife. I’m letting his blood, handshake blade like in Drive, His life’s all over now he’ll be dead in 5.
Those were the days. The one-sided duel to his death. Oh yes I’m afraid, The mic is most certainly deadlier than the shouted slur. But I no longer wet my hands, in the blood of lousy curs. I’m too old for my days, so I just give a look, and tramp off stage.