tim frank – 3 poems

Pregnant Pause

I’m pregnant.
I have blue lines on wet sticks
reaching to the ceiling,
spilling out to sea.
I’m not pregnant,
I feel nothing,
my body is contained.
Save me from the horror
of a sensible mind;
give me nausea and scars
circling my waist.
Seal my split thoughts
with a factory full of limbs,
let me eat for two
and sleep among the shadows.
Give me pain for the drugs,
and tie me up into knots.
I’m listening hard to my body
but it’s a somersaulting circus.
I see monks ablaze
in military barracks,
and anorexic babies.
There’s a child in my cot.
I know he’s mine—he looks like an addict
with tracks around his neck.
My baby is dead,
I fed him lice for days—
sometimes I get confused.
I can hear shocking childlike cries
ringing through my flat,
but it’s just the next door neighbour
watching cable TV.
I have a son—
I believe it now,
I’ll let him drink his milk
and pray it isn’t poison.
Then I’ll stitch my body
to a hospital bed,
and feel my belly wither.
Set me free from not knowing
and the chains of mother moon.
My boy writhes and hurtles
through outer space—
let me assault him
into safety,
then I’ll wrap him in a blanket
until we both forget to breathe.


Sad Soldier

There’s a sad soldier in town tonight 
drinking lager from his boot,
hugging swivel stools
and ballerinas
dancing on broken legs.
His squad are running game 
in the streets far below 
like locusts 
high on cherry coke, 
wrestling with a spoon.
The sad soldier wants to slide down gable roofs
with flowers in his hair,
and shove breadcrumbs 
into sterile wombs,
while waiting for a song.
His tinnitus is a construct—
a strange nascent force
rapidly undressing,
babbling at the sun.
He prays to a God
with sick tattoos
and wheels in His eyes—
a God with chipboard wings
and rusty copper teeth.
The sad soldier wants 
to break free
from the Cold War 
in New York and Madrid,
then set fire to the willow trees 
in Big Brother’s rustic lair.
He wants to wade 
through volcanic rock 
in ermine furs and jewels,
eating liquorice 
and weeds
with a hammer and a sword.
One day his wounds 
will blossom 
like spikes in the soil,
near stained glass windows
that are really sliding doors.
One day he will thank 
his tireless foes
for their operatic comas,
and when they rise
from mud and clay
he’ll suck their thumbs 
like taffy 
and light their cigarettes.


Boring Poem
 
Feel the bulimic shape
of a boring poem.
Tap the skeletal lines
with a blind man’s cane.
The trees, the trees—
please hang me
from a branch,
or stab me with a leaf.
Grass lurks in the sludge
and it fills me with dread.
Let elephants flick 
nature’s bones into a river
with their ageing heels,
and forget its lifeless name.
Erase the noble word—
wipe its credit card scrawls
from supermarket windows,
and let breaking waves
wash symbols
from my bleeding gums.
Boring poems will praise
your speckled teal dress,
and cruise through swaying poppy fields,
as truth limps
like a stricken dancer
into icy lakes.
Save me
from deathly moonbeams
and haunting solar flares.
Instead, I’ll dream 
of kids
breathing fumes
in arcade fires,
and hand grenades
in subway stations.
Force the boring poem 
off suicide bridge
and hurl rancid sonnets
at the parapet wall,
then tear the written page 
to shreds,
until we’re free 
from toxic verse,
stripped bare,
crucified. 


TIM FRANK'S work has been published in Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Metaworker and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. His debut chapbook is, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24)
Twitter: @TimFrankquill


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