The Last Battle

The owners of Disorder let it loose
Because they wanted to make a quick buck
Ms. Consequence was half dead: systemic abuse
Then one day,  rejuvenated,  she roared “Fuck!!!”

Boomers taking cover under tables
Their old Cold War training taking over
Reading books such as Anne of Green Gables
Or pulling apart their four leaf clovers

It must be so nice to be trained like that
When the world is ending all around you
I’m just trying to look for my fat cat
He has missed our last rendezvous

I shout obscenities at every plane
Dropping their fire upon our city
I wonder,  was my entire life lived in vain?
I join the crowd as we face death with fury

Gone is my house,  gone is my cat
Gone is my car,  gone is my hat
Gone is that Armani I saved up for
And gone too is my credit score

Questions…Is my soul real? Will I still exist
After the powerful have ended their game?
I wish that I could make them cease and desist
Now all that I possess is a unique name

And my memories- bitter sweet

Lost at Sea

“Bring me aboard your magic ship
Made out of wood that still grows rings
I’m lost at sea after a dip
The raging waves cut off my strings

I’m only a broken puppet
With a plank to keep me afloat
But when I heard your loud trumpet
A sound came out of my parched throat”

I babbled, nonsense words and grunts
Learning once again how to speak
Assaulted by hope on all fronts
I saw what I never dreamed to seek

I pull myself up to the deck
But find there not a single soul
The sails unfurl while I check
And the floor creaks as though to console

(The ship sails away, over the dark sea
To a destination I cannot see)

New Hope (Chaos)

For half my life
Stifling in my seat
Killing all joy
Moving to the beat
Of a funeral dirge
Sung in my honour
(There was no one else
Not a single mourner)

I was on a journey
Driving with one hand
On the Highway of Death
Seeking a mythic land
Of joy and peace
Of deep understanding
Of empathy
A place less demanding
I followed the signs

For choosing the wrong road
For covering myself in blue woad
For waging war against myself
For losing all my meaning and worth
For choosing eternal sleep
For my lack of will
I was commanded
To cease and desist
And branded
With a kill sigil
After I got caught
Red handed
Of the impossible
Though I claimed
It was just improbable
I was maimed
Sometimes framed
For every failure

One attempt at suicide
Lost me my well wishers
(But I did gain
Some sympathy from my father
For whatever that’s worth)
I was so very close
To ending this damn pain
My funeral clothes
Embroidered with a rose
And tinted spectacles
Seeing only
The dark past
Of every mistake
(Mistakes now
That seem so minor
Let off with a fine)

Then all of a sudden
I felt filled with life
Just a week ago
I woke from my sleep
Surfaced from the abyssal deep
I do not know why
But I no longer want to die
For the first time since I was ten
Just a phase?
An idle phrase?
A deeper malaise?
A momentary blaze?
I hope not
I don’t know what
Touched me
Let my end be whenever
I’m not longer drained
Though my life
Might taste like bitter
Many times
Any times

(I can’t
Gird my loins
Forever and ever

Life could also taste like
And macaroons
Without that overpowering touch
Of Mussolini
If I choose
The right recipe

Chaotic Update

Once more
To the beachead
Dodging lead
Hanging by a thread
Armed with a bangalore
Blow blow blow
Thou monsoon wind
As I navigate
My mental state
This battlefield
Of carnage
And destruction

To walk past
The Cannibals’ Fiesta
To the neighbourhood store
La Cucaracha
In the background
The smell of pork
Tossed on the wok
Suffusing the air
I was desperate
For a 70mm stick
Made of paper
And dried leaves
An affliction
From my teens
There I met
Lina Inverse
A crush
From my past
A fiery slayer
And purveyor
Of all things
Of the Flame
And Soothsayer
Of the Hearth

She led me out
Of that fiesta
Of mystery meat
But in exchange
She took my words
And I developed
A serious case
Of writer’s block
(And the sniffles)
I made her waffles
As a gesture
Of my gratitude
While she went on
And on
And on
About Hector
And Paris
And the Eiffel Tower
And her sister
We stood
On the terrace
Looking down
Upon the neighbourhood

She introduced me
To her 122 friends
The next day
(One of them
Was chewing hay)
And there were
Even a few birds
Among them
A primal beast
Scared the shit
Out of me
But then
He said he was sorry
And swore
To make
A pilgrimage of penance
To Alpha Centauri
I told him
It was
Not his fault
He looked
Like a dinosaur

After two weeks
Of partying
And a brief parting
I downed
A vial of chaos
Drowning in words
I penned this
And now
You’re all caught up

MTO Philip Tanmay

C’est moi, c’est moi, ’tis I, here to astound and astonish you today. Behold below, a link to a fantabulous and spectacular series of short stories called ‘Made to Order Horror, ‘ written by Kelly. This week’s story features a protagonist some of you may know, and explains his present day phobia for buzzards. Please read it and post your thoughts.

KL Griffiths

I opened my lunch sack and smiled at the note Mom wrote on the plastic sandwich bag: I love you, Philip – Mom xoxo. She put smiley faces in the o’s. And…hooray! Roast beef. There’d be horseradish and butter slathered on those thick, soft slices of Italian bread. My class was last to eat lunch, so I starved through math class and didn’t learn hardly anything. But it was going to be okay now, because: roast beef.

I tugged the plastic bag down just enough to expose the first bite, and a shadow passed over me, too small and quick to be a cloud. Black wings drummed air; two craggy talons scratched at my face, made me blink and wince. A tugging on the sandwich. And…the most minuscule, horrifying sound, the cruel slip from the plastic bag.


My swipe was in vain. The buzzard was gone. The kids laughed…

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The Mad King

All his gold and jewels
All his land and honour
His lively court of fools
All the art he sponsored
All his brave brave soldiers
All his tales of prowess
All of his composure
His borders once boundless
Are now gone or broken

His large kingdom of sand
Has slipped through his fingers
His once proud army band
Their last dirge still lingers
In air as though frozen

The apple of his eye
Who once glowed and glittered
Had fed his ears with lies
And left his mind bitter

This old king’s in my soul
Raging against the storm
Rage! Blow! Madness! Console!
Anger’s keeping him warm

Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! rage! blow!

(The last line is from King Lear)