I.
The skeletons closed their mouths
Upon our torso. They hug us tight,
For we are precious airlifted cargo.
Above us the sky is the canopy. The billowing
Parachute becomes weightless like jellyfish,
And I the shivering fish caught in its curtain.
We squirm mid-air and the poison stings
Where the straps dig in. Our shoulders and hips,
Like tenderloin, where the unforgiving bites.
The pinching has to be the price of
Falling from the sky, yet here dangling and foolish
We are more crucified sacrifices, awaiting
Some sea dragon rearing up to take us
And grant peace for another year. The doom walls
Close in. To ourselves, we whisper: for honour and glory.
II.
The stag raises its head
And the forest watches back.
Their crowns, their proud
Antlers reach towards the sky,
Issuing an insolent challenge.
The crooked fingers point
Rudely, cursing the clouds,
Electric and taut, sniffing the
Air for a voice. They crackle
And try to communicate. Patiently
Waiting for a reply, the stag
Resumes grazing
Impervious to the uproar elsewhere
In a white dreamless container.
Perhaps the prime minister dies.
And the herd raises their heads
And moves on, laughing, the forest
Dark and wet in their eyes all
Over.
III.
Bow-backed
Slow pet, shrugging
Heavy green shells.
Curious and roving
Like turtles,
Bellies down, neck
Craned, hard
To imagine these
Overweights
Picking up and sprinting
And killing.
When they bite
Off your finger they mean
To swallow you whole.
In its snug intestines,
One could fall asleep
And dream of the world
Falling apart while you,
Sleeping infant calm,
Feel safe from
Loneliness in this
Four-person grave.
IV.
We float down the river on some giant animal carcass. It is
Bald and resigned to its fate, offering its spine to the sky,
Pious and devout, returning its scriptures to Death.
Rain had made the way misty and wet and the trees stand alert
Like toothbrushes. We continue to drift into the mouth of a fairy-tale.
We scuttle around, wary of getting too close to the water, like
Flies making haste to plant our eggs. Strapped in orange boxes, we are
Obscene. Even the mist parted and turned away from the blasphemy
Of our presence as we leech upon this pilgrimage. There, to the left,
The trees parted into open sea and far off in the grey, the
Evening causeway blinked at us. Will any passenger turn to look
And witness the cruising orange vests? A pity. A bizarre procession
Moves right on beneath our noses, without offending.
Skywards, the clouds try to devour us and return the body
To Life. The water about us whirs and sprays like a man trying to
Stand. He wants to offer us to pacify the darkening sky. A gust picks up
And overhead, a flock of birds dash across the sky – a ripple
Of goose bumps beneath the skin.
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