plhyams@isdn.net.i 

THE BROOD

Initiated by a strange thought,

An outburst of anger provoked;

That wheelchair standing so unattended

In a coppice quite remote;

Brought The Brood back together.

Those disenchanted three having drifted

Apart over the innovative years;

Imagining it was some black joke,

Laughed kismet aloud to themselves.

Yet it had been arranged before.

It was no random jest.

Would those horribly homologous hellcats

See the purpose in that test?

For the invalid once confined to

That leather-backed contraption,

Wasted great stores of her energy

Rolling in Circle’s thriftless action.

That stump was their mother!

How had she managed to raise

Such rampageous rattling rascals?

There had never been another.

Now postured with light behind,

And staring down at remembrance;

That trio of clucking witches would

Retrace their steps unto another time:

When they as anyone like anyone

Could have been hungry, wet or crying;

And then that litter epitomized

The eternal triangle’s need for

A healing, bold, declarative loving sign.

But those roles play with us

Leaving no one exempt.

Children end up their parents’ parents,

The debtors are tautologically bled.

Yet it is not from intention that

The feeling is so communicated;

Though brief be their conjectural pasts,

They have all been thoroughly inundated!

So returning to that triad gazing

At various recollections miserably distorted:

That outdated vehicle’s former occupant

Seated once again, herself visibly undaunted,

Before The Brood’s projector eyes.

Understandably startled by her appearance,

Their histories so seemingly reported,

Could have meant no more to them,

When placed above those maternal sighs.

That scene being now revived,

Resounded from the clatter raised by

Various relatives and assorted lovers who

Crooned to one another beneath the foliage.

Was it a wedding or a wake?

Such a gaggle was nothing to be

Tolerated all for the sake

Of a show of imported fools

Being brought down to the lake

Which lay below the copse.

The Brood were much smaller then,

Much happier, none the smarter;

Knowing naught of marital mistake!

That wheelchair was shinier too,

Holding a dead-legged beauty who

Not once attempted to solicit a woo

In Pity’s name or spiteful melody.

They only remember the proximity of

Those encompassing, cushioning arms.

A sharp scent off heated skin halved

By a metal stool implied no harm would

Come to the triplets whilst in

That protective healing embrace.

But that Madonna’s youth swiftly flew;

One departed then three became two,

And two changed into one until

Even that one soon had gone.

Silences grew out of loveless days,

With no child left to fan the flames

Which petered out of that heart.

The reunion had turned quite sad.

The Brood released a curt bark

Of pain which turned into some

Had item on a forgotten shopping list.

That Mom’s flesh dried then fell

From those half-used bones,

Like wide velvet petals from the

Stem of some hemophiliac rose.

Until finally, The Brood circled in

That homeland: Old vultures gathered

Together in fear and knowing of no

Singular reason why they were

There with their souls bare.

The country sky bore down upon them.

LUNAR LANDING

Your body is a moonscape

as the candle flickers

in the other room sending

its light weaving around

your now tossing torso.

And I imagined I saw

the inferno boiling in your

eyes as I shook when I landed

upon your white planet.

The moon is not cold.

The moon is not dead.

THE KICK

I saw an old leather boot lying dead

upon the street

There is a war outside which waits

silently for its victims from

the city

The cyber-punk kid is the new Achilles

with his diaper safely fastened by a bloody

safety pin he sits in dumbness

awaiting the new messiah

The soldiers in the war do not realize

they are engaged in battle

They are not even aware of the wounds

they inflict upon their opponents

How can this be when their opponents

are themselves

They are their conquerors and the

conquered

There is a war outside

Blinds of creaky crumbly desolate houses

swing to and fro pushed by the foul drafts

of the city

Newspapers blow across no-man’s lands of

asphalt and steel sewer tops

The black fear the white and the white are

even more terrified of the black

Street children sit crouched against brick walls

wiping away the snot from their noses with

deft violin plucks of the arm

They steal glances from the crowds who

pass on by

the ones who are petrified of showing compassion

the ones who are glorified because circumstances

do not warrant sympathy for them as of yet

But now I say to you who read this piece

I scream at you who read this

Just as that old boot who in its lifetime

has been kicked around

Just as it is being kicked around now by a million

lonely creatures

So shall we experience the storm of change

The wall will break

The infinity of glass and light will shatter

upon these streets

upon the black-tie dinners of smirking socialites

upon the Ego and the Id

the war is here

Soon it shall remove its robe of concealment

The children will burn but when the battle is

over be reborn

I saw an old leather boot lying dead upon the street

INHERITANCES

In recollection those memories

Carried no aches or poison fluids

Which leaked from inflamed bowels:

But only numbness, dumb thuds

Falling off long dead friends.

And mothers past the menopause

Held no authority or philosophies

Which could guide their wayward sons:

But only brittleness, yellow senility

Whispered from cracked parched mouths.

In futures those reactions

Fed no purpose or cleansing fire

Which eased man’s weaker plight:

But only retribution, cruel death

Born of lies and guns.

And offspring out of puberty

Maintained inheritances in disguise

Which decided others’ sordid fates:

But only momentarily, hollow releases

Spawned by shame and might.

© Copyright, Philip Hyams. 
All Rights Reserved. Printed By Permission.