Very Bad Archive
Dull-Head
Pena Michael
Last night a few falling leaves;
We sat outside watching the wind whip around and blow everything apart.
I noticed that night fell early now.
Darkness found its way home, like sailors lost at sea finally finding the land they longed for. It pulls its ship into port and cries “Thank Ye God, I am home."
The light is gone now.
We wailed with the wind and hoped for a downpour of rain to wash our sins away.
What is in our blood and what is our blood on?
What came first the chicken or the DNA strand?
What sounds slipped in as we prayed?
What sounds, silent as pickpockets slipping trained hands into our jeans, whisked away our identity?
What silent sounds never heard
hurried in our heads then flew away?
In distance, a group of men stand before us and stare down with stern faces.
In their hands they hold heavy books, covers caked with dust.
They write our names in their leather bound books and close the covers.
The case is closed and we don't even know
what the bastards wrote.
Was it the banker or the
baker that first saw right through us?
Who was it that bought us pound by pound, ounce by ounce?
We find a bottle of brandy and toast the afternoon bowel movement; the mundane now a case for celebration.
Elliot was wrong, it is June that is cruel,
the warm sun, lovers in bloom.
Please, God bring winter and cover us all in a cold blanket.
They will find us a hundred years from now, captured in ice, our faces frozen
in a dull gaze.
Now shut the hell up
and turn the TV on.
Pena Michael has published 2 more terrible poems since joining on 30/11/99. Read more of Pena's terrible poetry at the anthology. Here are three of Pena's latest works: