POETRY BY JOHN GREY

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, and has been published in New World Writing, River and South, The Alembic, Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Cantos. His latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon.

A BUDDING HORROR WRITER ON THE BEACH

The sun is determined to cook my skin.
I perch on a rock, far from tanning bodies,
sandcastles, and a net-less volleyball game.
I’m immersed in my imagination
but Old Sol still knows where to find me.

My brother flexes muscles at the far end of the beach.
He’s tall and blonde, like a cover of a surfing mag.
I’m just the useless boy, thin and unnecessary.
The bullies need not bother with my 98 pounds.
The sea-wind slaps my face enough.

My brother has a job, has a girl,
has a brand-new fiberglass board.
I have a nasty story itching to get out.

Why bring me to this hot place?
My parents preempt love for torture.
For my mind has pale skin and freckles easily.
The nights haven’t invented Goth yet.
They haven’t made it possible for those my age,
my attitudes, to wander dark streets, dress in black,
take on the sins of the world and not its tan lines,
to adopt those transgressions into an art-form.

Waves creep up, tickle my toes.
The wave I’m working on would go for the throat.

THE ONE CRAWLING UP THE SIDE OF A BUILDING

I am undead,
spread like a web,
scaling the wall
toward the open window
and the unwary sleeper within.

My cape flutters like wings
but I am no butterfly
sipping the buds of flowers.
I’m here to drink deep.

Thirst pulls me upward
on its invisible wires,
in a quest for virgin nectar.

Where urge runs fierce,
I am its red-eyed acolyte,
so much to despise in myself
but not enough to surrender
this gift of eternal
subterranean living,
as I clamber over the sill,
approach the bed
and the soft, inviting one within.

But I cannot escape my history.
What may feel like love
in the beginning
will be death before the night is through.

I’m drawn to the beauty.
My groping fingers
stroke her tender brow.
My feral lips are ameliorated
by their brush with her gentle cheeks.
Somewhere in my chest
a dormant heart beats
in half-remembered ways.

THE VILLAGE IN JANUARY

Sunlight yields
To night and chimney,
low black clouds,
lengthening shadows,
gray-curdled smoke.

In a village of fear,
faces stare,
solemn and pale,
through windows.

Outside,
on cobblestone streets,
red eyes make tunnels
in the gloom.

FLIPPING THE SWITCH

Yes, at first, my fingers trembled
and my conscience balked at playing God,
but now, excuse the pun,
I’m an old hand at this.
You strap them in the chair
and I’ll send three thousand volts
through their body,
no questions asked,
no sensibilities threatened.
Heads bob, torsos shake,
legs kick against their bindings
whether the transgressor
is male, female, black, white or brown.
I’d even electrocute my own brother
except I already did that years ago,
at home, with a bowl of water
and a jerry-rigged toaster.
That’s how I got this job.