John Grey

MEG

Meg knows that bones cannot be her child.

Men in orange have no sympathy.

Much worse is her tongue.

But no need to get jealous.

Noise is the best of all wakeup calls.

There’s never enough of either

to make three kinds.

The moon is seldom new or full.

If pressed, a bird will always warble something.

A synonym for “in the mood” is “occasionally.”

Possibilities smell like rotted corpses.

It is never easy to glue another’s lips.

It’s best to stop short of a come-hither.

Beware the big lug you keep bumping into.

The clock’s main mission is to

come along and spoil it all.

As the day goes, so does the final result.

Beware the guy who leans over.

Avoid waitressing at all costs.

There is no pleasure like walking underwater.

Myths are sometimes real creatures.

Common ground is really quicksand.

BETH

Beth – so much of her,

so many of her,

the restless disciple

of her own jumbled plans.

Beth – the artist,

capable, incapable,

enthralled with

yet disappointed by

her skills with a brush.

Beth – she of the

continuous heart dialog,

the off-brand mind,

the addiction to discontinued

sodas and men,

who cannot ease her way out,

or make things calm,

or arrange, adorn, her materials

to aid her carrion art.

Beth – moody mixture,

malevolent minx,

an Indian rope trick

with Beth on both ends.

CATHY

you awaken like tide offal

an ocean of monsters

claws back towards

the horizon

and a silence

clean white sandy

you slip back into your body

the only living thing for miles

examine it

for what is still in you

your skin glassy clear

after-effects of dreams like

dirt under finger-nails

exact a shiver from your eyes

here is a quivering beast

that sucks blood

there is the drowning man

someone you will soon know

and will scream a perverse

responsibility for

as he plummets

for the last time

the monsters may leave

but weeping chaos reigns

in their place

heretic inserts

wiggling ocean floor illustrations

a darkness strings itself

from one year to the next

like rope to trees

you stumble across it

careful you don’t hang yourself

KATE

You drink out of your ex-boyfriend’s skull.

You wear his ears as earrings

and his teeth as jangling bangles.

His bagpipe bladder is your favorite instrument

for squeezing and blowing.

His skin makes for an interesting rug.

But his eyes are of no use –

no one plays with marbles anymore.

As for his butt cheeks, they make the perfect drum.

You’d get up and dance but then

who’d keep up that mighty rhythm?

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.