Friday 30 April 2010
remember-me-not
If you’ve two left feet, do you march at half speed? thought Jayne, and Margaret babbled. Jayne remembered running alongside the brook during cross country. The smell among the trees wasn’t like air freshener. The breeze was not like air conditioning. Me mam was a dinnerlady in the days before ketchup, said Margaret. Jayne remembered her brother crouched behind the shrub as the clouds started spitting. Him spitting back at the sky. Also, she remembered streamers hanging in the unlit school hall, and also the big dirty nails on the park keeper’s fingers, some hanging off. You comin down for a fag? asked Margaret as she left. Jayne sat still. I’ll not come to the Christmas party, she said to no one in particular.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Wednesday 28 April 2010
an uneven keel
Upon stubbing his toe, Edmund’s pain located him more specifically in his body than at other times. He was now mostly located towards the end of his foot. The foot that, stubbing itself, knocked Edmund’s boat figurine from the mantel. The boat that was inscribed ‘Jesus is my boat through the storm’, or something. The foot that was moistening inside his terry towelled socks.
Edmund was decentred, swung to his own extremities. His toe moved to the front door - which opened - and traced the letters of ‘Bless this home’ on the doormat. Edmund went out into the light rain and improved the circumstance of his toe to better catch the drops.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Edmund was decentred, swung to his own extremities. His toe moved to the front door - which opened - and traced the letters of ‘Bless this home’ on the doormat. Edmund went out into the light rain and improved the circumstance of his toe to better catch the drops.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
mmm
“Delicious!” Albert approved of the turtle soup. It had cooked slowly, bubbling almost to the brim on occasion, the old meat drinking in the juice and liquor.
“What next? What next?”
The island’s annual fisherman’s ball was the pinnacle of Albert’s social mountain. He’d never fished himself, but as head postal officer he was as close to a dignitary as the community could muster.
Wiping his greasy finger on his stiff little napkin, he thought of how the soup was even now seeping into his bloodstream, his innards thirsting for its delicious quality, intestines in anticipation, barely contained in their rush to make the soup part of him.
Albert liked very much to maintain his deliciousness.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
“What next? What next?”
The island’s annual fisherman’s ball was the pinnacle of Albert’s social mountain. He’d never fished himself, but as head postal officer he was as close to a dignitary as the community could muster.
Wiping his greasy finger on his stiff little napkin, he thought of how the soup was even now seeping into his bloodstream, his innards thirsting for its delicious quality, intestines in anticipation, barely contained in their rush to make the soup part of him.
Albert liked very much to maintain his deliciousness.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
Monday 19 April 2010
airbag I
Aerodynamics no. 1
I fear open spaces, waver at blind
corners, quicken my step, head down,
hair uprooted like trees, ears boxed,
tears squeezed from half-closed eyes.
I hate this wind that pushes at me,
unravels days like it’s caught my thread.
My father, aerodynamicist, loves
the wind. He gifted my school a hi-tech
anemometer, spent his long days
watching fine powder swirl and play
over models in his wind tunnel,
paper leaves dance in a train’s wake.
Once I am sheltered safe, ears warmed,
nestled in, shielded by double-glazing,
I love to hear the wind howling outside.
Raindrops are flung against the pane,
birds are led through a desperate tango,
while my father brings warm, sweet tea.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
I fear open spaces, waver at blind
corners, quicken my step, head down,
hair uprooted like trees, ears boxed,
tears squeezed from half-closed eyes.
I hate this wind that pushes at me,
unravels days like it’s caught my thread.
My father, aerodynamicist, loves
the wind. He gifted my school a hi-tech
anemometer, spent his long days
watching fine powder swirl and play
over models in his wind tunnel,
paper leaves dance in a train’s wake.
Once I am sheltered safe, ears warmed,
nestled in, shielded by double-glazing,
I love to hear the wind howling outside.
Raindrops are flung against the pane,
birds are led through a desperate tango,
while my father brings warm, sweet tea.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
airbag II
Aerodynamics no. 2
I’m not a bully wind, I’d rather
run buffeted through tight streets,
scratched by trees in parks.
Chimneys don’t whistle for me.
Laundry on lines flaps and jeers.
Drains grate me into sewers.
Tall buildings funnel me,
spin me desperately at dead ends.
Leaving the city I stoop low
to stroke grass, spread to fill valleys,
tumble over hills, before swooping up
to tease clouds into Rorschach blots.
I merry-go-round windmills,
carry dandelion clocks away into wishes.
I am the wind that hurries over
the top of wings to keep birds in flight.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
I’m not a bully wind, I’d rather
run buffeted through tight streets,
scratched by trees in parks.
Chimneys don’t whistle for me.
Laundry on lines flaps and jeers.
Drains grate me into sewers.
Tall buildings funnel me,
spin me desperately at dead ends.
Leaving the city I stoop low
to stroke grass, spread to fill valleys,
tumble over hills, before swooping up
to tease clouds into Rorschach blots.
I merry-go-round windmills,
carry dandelion clocks away into wishes.
I am the wind that hurries over
the top of wings to keep birds in flight.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
against the grain
Swimming to the Buoy
I swam for the buoy as fast as I could
against barging shoulders. Balanced finely
in salt-heavy waves, went further than I should,
looked back to the beach, squinted for the tiny
figures who’d mostly tired of watching me.
I swam harder to show them I was brave,
that I was thin but strong, that I could be
more than a flaw on the face of tall waves.
As I let water slide over me, a fleet
of rough coffin lids, I have no regrets:
my narrow legs feel strong down to my feet,
I breathe out fights, rivalries, dissolve debts.
Now I lie down on the seabed, forget
spectators, and how I longed for biceps.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
I swam for the buoy as fast as I could
against barging shoulders. Balanced finely
in salt-heavy waves, went further than I should,
looked back to the beach, squinted for the tiny
figures who’d mostly tired of watching me.
I swam harder to show them I was brave,
that I was thin but strong, that I could be
more than a flaw on the face of tall waves.
As I let water slide over me, a fleet
of rough coffin lids, I have no regrets:
my narrow legs feel strong down to my feet,
I breathe out fights, rivalries, dissolve debts.
Now I lie down on the seabed, forget
spectators, and how I longed for biceps.
© Matthew Joseph Johnson, 2010
