We Are The Death’s Head Pulse
They say the seams are not joining, cast off shoulders, the disjointed variety of the four
Letter words of their foaming makes the crack bubble and boil at the candy stripes of
Oblivion’s gate, what’s left of it.
We are tongues, we are a cannon ball, we are a bulk of confused frustrations making the
Vivid wider… Wider with our every mindful breath.
We are the body scan, we are the Death’s Head pulse.
Rooks & Ravens
Rooks and ravens sarcoptic mange and jay’s teal, crow’s black
Jackdaw’s grey hood and magpie’s legendary greed,
Gas molecules are stuffed into a whirlpool in the gut, snuck in the craw,
Waiting to be devoured.
Shining like a far off sun, like a silver milk bottle top,
Trinkets revealed about the cage.
Easy coping mechanism drowse, killer of killers,
The psychopathic rage of birds in flocks.
Cuttlefish dread about the aviary, the scullery of the chamber,
The reading of the will of sighs. A organ of minor chords,
You shouldn’t forsake a gaggle, laying with the Devil down.
See it coming, see it try and hide, see it be swallowed up by the monsoon.
Copyright © Grant Tarbard 2013
Grant Tarbard worked mainly, in his younger days, as a computer games journalist and a contributor to football fanzines. It was when he was 14 that his epiphany came after a chance encounter with Allen Ginsberg on 4am TV. He is now the editor of The Screech Owl www.thescreechowl.com His work can be seen in such magazines as The Rialto , Poetry Cornwall and Decanto.