for T.E, I.E, and G.B
 
Heart felt like a volcano shelled
by endless gunners testing artillery.
 
Vesuvius erupted in 1944.
 
Your cold face was dormant,
arms placed over your chest,
a sleepy giant so small, you lay
hushed like the stillness of
a Tibetan monk.
 
Vesuvius did not erupt in 2007
although it wanted to,
‘asleep for now’ it said on the
September issue of
National Geographic.
 
You died in June five months after her.
                    
- - -
 
She used to feed me cabbage cores,
tough clump of root gnawed away
until nothing remained.
 
Vacant stares littered the corridor
occasionally met by lucid arms and
desperate fingers, gnawing away
until the clasp relinquished.
 
You died five months before him.
No goodbye.
 
In a dream you sang a lullaby,
I needed a pencil to jot down
the tone of your voice,
but I’ve never drawn a treble clef correctly,
the fear of losing the tune
made my brain melt to a puddle of piss.
 
I imagine it to be a similar feeling
to what is felt when a volcano is shelled
by endless gunners testing artillery.
 
- - -
 
The story of streets on fire
from the bombs, riding bikes
amongst embers of attrition
was only learnt after the end.
 
She died in 2012 from a hug.
 
In the moments I held her,
she saw him standing near me,
I’d never met his face but knew it well
from trapped memories in frames,
paused moments.
 
There was a warmth.
The dry chamber
of my heart replaced by fairy lights,
closed within a box
and stored in the attic.
 
When saying goodbye to
the turkey and tinsel, there is
a closure of the holiday period,
a sense of acceptance that
Christmas
has finally come to its end.
 
Excitement seems out of reach
for at least 364 days,
but midwinter signals midsummer,
the gifts of the hollow hill
bring comfort.

​Alvar opened his eyes. “Sorry, what?”

“I said, it’s a bit weird. You know, walking towards me with your eyes closed.”

“Yeah, I guess it is. Sorry! I’m Alvar, by the way, Alvar Donnigan-Hue.”

“Oh right,” replied the guardsman. “I’m Captain Gustav.”

“Well, Captain, I’ve been on some journey to get here. Could you tell me if this is the door to the castle?”

“Absolutely, I can tell you if this is or isn’t the door to the castle.”

A big sigh escaped Alvar and danced its way onto the breeze. He couldn’t work out if the guard was being difficult with his answer on purpose or if he was just a little bit odd.

“Is this the door to the castle?” asked Alvar.

“Yes!” replied Gustav. “This here is the door which leads to the castle. Castle Krogan. The King’s Keep. The 2nd highest point in all of Ne’er! It's rather impressive, isn't it?”

“Excellent!”

Alvar Donnigan-Hue was relieved. After all that relentless climbing, and navigating those tricky roads, he had got to the famous gold-trimmed door. This was it. Finally he would get into the castle.

“Can I go inside?” Alvar said.

“No mate, the door’s stuck,” replied Gustav.

“But this is the way into the castle?” asked Alvar.

“Oh yes. The main entrance actually.”

“And it’s stuck?” queried Alvar.

“Yup. The door’s stuck. Stuck like a curious pigeon.”

Frustration overcame Alvar. His brow sunk as he gritted his teeth. You could hear the grinding all the way down on the beach. Despite this, Alvar pushed his feelings down, swallowed deeply, and tried to continue the conversation.

“So, how long has it been stuck?”

Gustav looked at the door and removed his cap briefly, rubbing the sweat away and taking time to think. He placed his cap back on and turned back to Alvar.

“About ten years.”

“TEN?” shouted Alvar dramatically, “TEN YEARS! But, how do people get in and out then?”

“Oh, well... we built another one,” said Gustav.

“Another one?”

“Oh yes.” said Gustav.

“Well,” began Alvar Donnigan-Hue, “can I use that one?”

“Don’t see why not!” replied Gustav.

“Great! Where is it?”

The guard turned again and pointed towards the remainder of the mountain. A large, looming shadow fell onto Alvar's face and drowned him in anxiety.

“How do I get up there?” questioned Alvar, exasperated at the whole situation.

“You have to go around the island. Back around. All the way.”

It was in this moment that Alvar stared into the vast rock face before him and felt the overwhelming need to wail. He held back his tears and the many screams that wanted to leap out of his body. With a few deep breaths, he calmed himself down enough to ask the guard why he was guarding a stuck door. He was met with a burst of laughter that shook the guards belly and beardy chin.

“Ha! I’m not guarding a stuck door! That’s absurd! What a ridiculous notion!” said Gustav.

“So what are you guarding?” enquired Alvar.

“Oh, I’m guarding what stuck it.”

“What stuck it?” demanded Alvar.

“What stuck it?” asked Gustav rhetorically, “It’s the king!”

“The king?”

“Yeah, he’s made of marshmallow. It was back during that really hot summer we had about ten years ago. The king was about to open the door when the heat made him suddenly melt and he sort of oozed into the handle, and around the slim gaps, and then kind of set solid again. We haven’t seen temperatures like it since... one day though! One day it’ll be that hot and the king will melt again and I’ll be here to help him out. Oh! Then you could use the door!”

“Yeah, thanks,” said Alvar Donnigan-Hue before turning around and heading back towards the infamous narrow path.



Written by Thom Boulton and illustrated by Anthony Rollinson.

1.
The sky holds the gods.
Exalted exile; exhausted edge.
 
Stare long enough at the moon,
and you’ll notice the shape more,
have you tried to go mad?
 
Look longer, beyond the shade,
glimpse into variants,
moonbathe in the moment,
drenched in the reflection,
 
you’ll be able to walk the many.
 

2.
Words fail me. I am searching for a description of that moment when the river drops, bends over and flows in to itself, the point where it shapes and releases. I need a word for it yet I can’t find its real name so perhaps I’ll try and borrow one.
 
Writhe?
 
The writhe of the water.
 

3. 
He came armed with a squashed circle,
waved it proudly in the air and called it ‘egg’,
 
there were no pennies to pay the orchestra,
all misshapen in the penny press machine,
 
elongated faces stared and congratulated,
they clapped by smacking their lips together,
 
dirty hands reflected in the glass ellipsis,
each blemish trilled a traveller’s tale,
 
a bar of wet soap slipped out of his grip,
cracked tiles before absconding out the door.
 

 
4.
Did you hear the one about the girl
in the garden with the snake? No?
It’s a real rib tickler.
 
Old Pygmalion, pudding and pie,
kissed his statue and made her die.
 
What did Enki think he would achieve
eating enough cannabis to make his
limbs numb? Ninti played doctors.
 
In Japan you can marry a video game,
but evolving from disk drives is limiting
any chance of consummation.
 
Monroe and Miller, sitting in a tree,
F-U-C-K-I-N-G, first comes lust,
then comes marriage, American goddess,
 
which one suffered disparagement?

 
5.
Yesterday, I did not write a poem.
Nor did I write one the day before.
 
I take solace knowing that in one
of the many worlds that I live in,

I did write yesterday and before,
and it was the best poem to date.

 
6. 
If you stare into a meme long enough
it will reflect who you really are,
learn that
 
since the dawn of capitalism, man
has dreamed of a soaring economy,
our race,
 
born from the silica sands of computers,
wishes to rule all three realms,
 
but does not understand that
these three realms rule us.

 
7.
Daedalus, one foot on the threshold,
lost in a complex rhyme of linear thought,
 
the reverie cannot last forever for over
in one palm is a thorn; the other a grain,
 
licking blindly will offer even chances
of nourishing or starving the argument.
 
Were he to seduce the active dimension
then his lips would taste of chalk or paint,
 
with decorated lips he could role play
a damsel and swoon onto the parallel,
 
though likely squash his face into stone.
Years will pass by like fallen eyelashes
 
and the growl of the creature will keep
him captive to chaos, a prisoner addicted
 
to palliative promises, and when the stars
expire, there he will remain, entrenched
 
in the scholarly definition of a labyrinth,
never realising he could coat his arms
 
in wax, and escape to a halcyon sphere.