September 24, 2018 | Occasus | Issue 8 | Poetry
The Bowerman
Bachelor Pad
brings babes displays Johnnie Walker, Cuervo, Goldschlager, Schnapps. Techs for necking: Bose, iTunes Baby let your hair down, let me run my fingers through it. Lounge couch, leather, a brindled cow skin dead, spread on a marble floor, cut from a riverbed. Silk sheets spat, strung by worms, mood lighting that glints soft white glow off Trojan Groove, spilled His&Hers lube. In the morning, the Bowerman brews coffee beans shat by a civet. He feeds his girls, shows them the door. In the evening he preens, combs Musky Cedar Beard Oil through his hair. admires his ass, his size through the cut of his jeans, lopes off to bars, pursues females for fucking. |
Lord of the Fly
Brats. All
boney corners, narrow chests, scabbed stilt- legs fly, gliding on blacktop sidewalks, pull wheelies, mud-flung speeds, drop F-bombs for the taste. Whelps yelping SCREW YOU and SHIIIIIIIIIIT, cackling, wild hairless cubs in jeans, cracked caps, red cotton pullovers pint-sized Nikes. The delegation of kids stalk, roam, stake out territory, shirk curfew, bite back. Flanks the weak beats submissive initiates —younger brothers, tomboys. These boys’re practicing. Skinny shoulder squared, bared teeth punches, thrown weight, elbows, knees, bloody knuckles, nose, grinning black eye. They’ll yield rough adults, hard-fisted men who close their fists as soon as open their hands. Boy violence at its finest. |
Fargo
I read a personal essay by Annie Dillard
about weasels and tenacity, about catching wriggling passions with an arrow head, pinning them with needled teeth. A weasel lives as he’s meant to, she wrote. Yield at every moment to the perfect freedom of single necessity, she wrote. Be like the weasel. Pierce and lock those hungers withundeterred, inseparable jaws: encouragements for milky, lukewarm guppies like me, hypnotized by TV, writing in the token leather-bound book while Russel Harvard drills a hole in the ice, while Adam Goldberg bullies Martin Freeman who will not submit, who uses a stolen taser to escape, to cling tenaciously, weasel-like, to single necessity. I’d like to do the same with this book, this pencil, —sharpen my teeth on the edges, yield to perfect freedom, take and defend, the white page these skinny, sloppy written words —without murder-by-hammer, chest wounds that splatter like puddles plundered by toddlers, without drowning in a lake or in a bubbling slit throat, without the bare canvas of winter in Minnesota but really Calgary and without a bowl-cut Billy Bob Thornton who pursues relentless. |
KAELA MORIN is a fourth year Honours English student. Sometimes a writer. Sometimes a poet.