OLD WOMAN IN THE ABANDONED BUILDING

by John Grey

they left me here
she brawls
with speech
rips at her rescuers
as if they
were inquisitors

dogs are glad
for the light
cats sprawl
into the air

she leaves
belligerently
eyes squabbling like pigeons
lips their own target
hollering and bloody

STRANGE KID IN CLASS

by John Grey

I sit way at the back,

spend the school day

chiseling pentagrams in the desk,

jabbing dolls,

muttering curses under my breath.

The teacher never calls

my name for anything

and I don’t volunteer.

In fact, he’s afraid of making eye-contact

which suits me fine.

Besides, I’m after bigger game than him.

I haven’t bagged myself a teacher

since Mr Hopkins hung himself

back in the fourth grade.

My goal is four politicians,

three religious leaders

and a pop star by the time I graduate.

Spontaneous combustion,

toppling marble lion,

bat bite, bathtub drowning,

even something pseudo-self-inflicted

car in the garage, strychnine shots.

Creativity is nine tenths of black magic.

And unexpected heart-attacks are so passé.

Besides, natural causes racks up plenty of those.

And I wouldn’t want to mess around with that magic.

IMPERFECT WORLD

by John Grey

Late at night,

alone in my kitchen,

I imagine I talk with

my jailers,

raise questions about

the waning of the light,

the lengthening of shadows,

even the radiator burps

and the creaking of the floorboards.

I’ll pour them a drink

and slide it across the table.

I’ll thank them for

removing the handcuffs.

I’ll show them something I’ve written.

They’ll ask,

“What do you think about

the Turkish man

beaten to death by skinheads

in Germany?”

I’ll say, “Is that what

I’m in here for?

To come up with an answer?”

As usual, they fall asleep waiting

for my reply.

As always, I finally

stumble up to my bed,

slam the cell doors behind me.