Words to Amadeus no. 2 – Howl Davies

 

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I was hoping I would meet you here –
You have changed since.
There is a lot I must say
but mostly
I have only one thought.

I am tired
Amadeus.
I am tired of all this G-d given time.

Not too long ago
A woman –
old enough to be my mother –
gave me a brief glimpse of what is to come.

It was bleak –

And –
I found her alluring.

We discussed many things,

Film, poetry,

Nietzshe,

Salvaged crystal skulls,

Ginsberg and his wasted youth
of the Generation –

That always did fill me with pride…

There has always been this inescapable
Trepidation
About what comes next,
But she calmed them

(briefly)

And then she made me furious.

Amadeus,
How do you do it?
How do you face the world every day
knowing that your efforts are so meagre?

How do you smile, and
laugh, and
dance the night away
knowing that when you awake
you will still be so far displaced?

I have traced your steps to this point,
and I am in a hospital waiting room,
waiting for a doctor to tell me
my heart doesn’t work.

They’re telling me it’s failing to keep a rhythm,
and that I need to stop smoking,
and that I drink too much,
but everyone in the room knows nothing will change.

Amadeus

It was your stunted heart that I obsessed over,

And I’m beginning to see
how it helped you understand
this calamity
which we call home.


[Howl Davies is the creator of The Sounds Inside.]

In Amber – Howl Davies

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Do you ever think about
what is trapped in amber?
What were the last thoughts
of the dragonfly
or wasp
before they settled in
for eternity?
Did they feel fear?
Did they lead a full life?
Is the preservation to celebrate what they had done
or to ponder what they couldn’t –
a million years trapped in the trials
that are aught but fleeting obsession.

 


 

[Howl Davies is the creator of The Sounds Inside.]

 

Takotsubo – Howl Davies

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I can’t help but think
that this is it.
As the gold leaf page of dusk
turns,
and folds into night,
the post mortem will specify
‘unidentifiable cause’.
But you know I know better,
Red.
Clothes taut from being over worn,
overappreciated,
because you said they suited me.
Every letter I wrote,
I pray they were torn up
by you.
And I transcribed you into everything,
when there was a time and place for it.
That was the reason I couldn’t look at you.
The reason I left,
the reason I changed my name.
I fought off the family curse.
I killed off my old frame
in the coldest of blood.
It is but an amphetamine day dream
I have
now and then.
It’s a pleasant thought
of pleasant times, of content
reservations, but it’s no surprise
that it all comes back around to haunt.
Leave me suspended,
leave me begging for rapture,
falling away from my attempted sibilance-
the kind I use to derive purpose from.
I’m saying this to you as a person,
but even I don’t think that is fair,
for it was I who attached the myth to you.
As soon as I called you
Red
I knew I was making a mistake.
I hope in time you’ll see why.
I hope in time you’ll understand why I gave you that name.
And as post-mortem rolls into obituary,
rolls into last words, rolls into remembrance-
know that I gave you that name with best intentions.

There is a time and place for everything,
Just not this.


 

[Howl Davies is a student and aspiring writer from London. He is the creator of The Sounds Inside.]

Calling Me

By Bishop Hermes

 calling
Same distant call from far beyond
Amid the silences that empties souls
And is overthrown any entity
Who covers itself in transparent security
It calls me to come and take it back
In a voice solemn and hollow
Frightened and famished
Crying out to me bitterly from the land of blight
Entreating me to come and save it
So that it might beat again within me

Women and Horses-Rana Kelly

trembling skin.

come on to me,

slow slow slow,

and know.

wild-eyed and rolling, ready to bolt.

shattered, heaving sides.

shiver, shiver, shake

down your spine.

frozen, still ready to shake loose and hurt me

just in case.

because you know.

run my hand down quaking flanks,

speckled sweat, kiss your face, stroke your lips

storms and lightning in your eyes.

you know the sting and slash of whip-

boot heel, knee, fist.

whatever he had round at the time.

i feel it too, i felt it too.

sweet sweet girl.

with deep and shuttered eyes.

it’s the tight line of your spine when i reach for you,

and you lean and slide, reel and wheel, away.

gather up your strength little girl.

gather up your wind, show it to me.

silent now, lower your face to me.

lower your face to me.

breathe deep, don’t let him see you frighten,

don’t let him see your fear.

low low low, i blow on your skin,

touch the velvet under your eyes.

rim my finger on the seam of your ear.

shh shh shh. it’s all right.

lower your face to me.

ease down your eyes,

drift them down slowly.

lean to me, give me some weight.

i know the look of you-

coiled and strung

like hanging meat.

hooks and things-

until you break

until you break.

i know you.

what i was.

who knows us.

who knows what men can do

but women and horses.

[Rana Kelly was born and raised in the Deep South, and now resides in the Southwest.  Her poetry, personal essays, short fiction, and photography has been published in anthologies and literary magazines far and wide over the years, from Caesura to featherproof press, FM to Ceremony Collected. Her first novel, Until Her Darkness Goes, was published in 2015. She’s currently writing her second novel under a pseudonym.]