given Harry Potter horns
I even asked Santa for rakshasa –
and virgin, whatever that means.
but I expect you’d prefer something older
sketched what I imagined you must look like.
but already skinned a toad,
But, don’t worry, by the way,
defiling, fouling, deserted house, abandoned mill.
everything dermatology offers,
glory in gory newspaper details.
hellfire is safe with me.
I follow your career with awe.
the other kids in Kindergarten.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in New Plains Review, Rockhurst Review and Spindrift with work upcoming in South Carolina Review, Gargoyle, Sanskrit and Louisiana Literature.
Crows sit atop gravestones and caw.
Busted angel above,
rotting one below.
An eye drips tears.
A hand drips cheap flowers.
Black cloud quells trees,
And men, women,
dressed in their own black clouds,
creep silently toward a fresh digging.
Caw says the crow,
its vintage mockery of the great beyond.
If time is the human wing, it asks,
then why are there none of them
high in the treetops.
The priest gives his usual speech.
The Lord taketh away,
he drolly intones.
Presumably, he giveth elsewhere.
More caw caw caw.
In a cemetery, every bird’s a critic.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Paterson Literary Review, Southern California Review and Natural Bridge with work upcoming in the Kerf, Leading Edge and Louisiana Literature.
She has recently returned from the dead.
Thankfully, her skin didn’t have time to rot
and her bones are still quite capable
of holding her flesh together.
Intestines in working order…check.
Lungs… yes even the lungs
are inhaling, exhaling perfectly.
She’s not even coughing up dirt.
It’s a miracle.
No, not really-
More likely three a,m. on Sunday morning,
a mother’s vigil ended long before
in a deep couch sleep,
a father threatening to smash the guy’s face in
before he too succumbed to the call of weariness.
She’s back from the deadly car crash.
She’s awoken out of that drunken stupor.
Not even the rape and murder
has her looking blankly up at daisy roots
or crying out to the weevils,
“Come and get it!”
She’s tired and crawls into bed
without taking her clothes off.
Next morning, three corpses
swallow cornflakes, sip coffee,.
give life one more try.
John Grey is an Australian born poet. Recently published in Slant, Southern California
Review and Skidrow Penthouse, with work upcoming in Bryant Literary Magazine, Natural Bridge and Soundings East.