Nothing Falls New A Hollow Mouth After the Jungle

Nothing Falls New

HARRIS COVERLEY

A jammed thumb Is not the same as a broken one Although it can hurt as much Lost love is not the same As love unrequited But the pain is just as real

It is the season of decay Scuttling human endeavour The rust hangs heavy on the walls The dust gathers in the corners The toothbrush bristles pull apart A piano slowly plays somewhere

Outside is the perfect day For mistaking a crisp packet Blown by the wind For a crawling rodent

Harris Coverley has had poetry most recently accepted for Better Than Starbucks, The Oddville Press, Bard, Awen, Star*Line, and Scifaikuest, amongst others. He is also a short story writer, working mainly in the fields of weird and speculative fiction, and has stories published or forthcoming in Curiosities, Planet Scumm, and The J.J. Outré Review. He lives in Manchester, England.

A Hollow Mouth

HARRIS COVERLEY

Are you better now? Oh, what a pity...

You really must come and visit When you get better of course

Don’t worry about the bill We’ll get the bill We know you’re good for it

And don’t worry about the tip I’ll get the tip (As always)

You really must not worry yourself It’s only money Money isn’t everything

Did you sort out that loan by the way? Oh, what a pity...

Well, plenty more in the sea Finance that is

Another drink? Oh dear, we don’t want that, do we?

Going so soon? But you haven’t finished your... Oh, oh, I see What a pity...

But please, you must come back soon As soon as you can We miss you always

Sorry, what was that? Oh, what a pity...

Well, that’s how it goes That’s the way it always goes In cases like that (So I’m told)

Hmmm? No, I don’t know about that I can’t really help you there, I'm afraid

Well, goodbye Give her my love I miss her so dearly

Oh, really? Oh, what a pity...

After the Jungle

HARRIS COVERLEY

The cat in his plastic cone scratches fiercely at the locked cat flap, desperate to go out, but forbidden to do so.

He has just had his nuts off. They knocked him out, twisted ‘em up, and lopped ‘em off in broad daylight, and I was the willing collaborator, the instigator, the Vichy-Quisling official who let the Nazi doctors occupy his body, change his destiny.

He stops scratching and looks up at me. His eyes ask: Why?

I look into those eyes and I understand the truth: between us two the wrong beast has been castrated.

And then he howls a high, knowing groan and goes back to scratching at the flap, his cone dragging against the door.

I grab my own balls and whistle a tune.

The cat has paid his price for entering human society.

When will I pay mine?