Poetry: Selections from Christian Ward

Comb Star

Astropecten polyacanthus

 

Its aubergine skin is purple from a hedge 

fund invested in thoughts that make you bruise:

A dismayed significant other considering 

offering a citrusy lick of the yellow poison frog

to watch them enter the turnstile at Hades. 

The employee flying like Icarus after share

options going south after poor results. 

A bleach cocktail ending a marriage involuntary. 

The red fox turned bloody as a poppy

after resting on the train tracks' rusting tongue. 

A horseshoe bat turned into a torturer's beanie. 

An elephant understanding the language of hatred. 

Sharks losing their rudders. The kipper-orange 

underside lost to the losing returns of soft sand;

its spikes a reminder of the shifting cost of pain. 

The Joy of Coffee 

50 cups of coffee is enough to turn you

into a nebula of pheasants lusting after the gun. 

50 more and your heart will leap out

of your mouth like an Ood, begging 

to be served like steak tartar so the rush

of experiencing the whole universe at once

can finally end. Some other side effects

should be noted to appease health and safety:

Your brain may violently shake inside

the cocktail shaker of your skull, 

resulting in bird poo grey matter. You may 

impersonate any celebrity so perfectly 

you could be their doppelganger. 

Animals will confess their darkest secrets. 

You'll be the Magneto of bras. Trees

will weep into your hands. Buildings

will tell you to fuck off. Every church 

will glow like your girlfriend

experiencing your hand up her skirt. 

The sky will call you a cunt

while the moon will explode

before everything becoming still

like the first time you fucked up.

Halloween Moth

Every other rainforest moth crumbles like a staked vampire 

compared to Creatonotos Gangis. This is an LSD trip made real, 

 

a flying hallucinogen. UFO clouds have nothing on it. TikTok 

it quickly before the silicon chips in your phone river away. 

 

YouTube its carpet knife abdomen - an optical illusion

fooling the eye into thinking it's a venus fly trap's eyelash rimmed 

 

head. You want the money shot - the bukkake of attention 

the internet released from its fibre optic tentacles:

 

The four furry butt cheeks ballooning from its abdomen -

bottle brush scent glands to attract a mate. Explanation given, 

 

you unwerewolf yourself back to normality, release 

the bandages that gripped you like a religious moment, 

 

scream and check every shadow like a private detective 

for something more monstrous, more monstrous than what's 

been attached to you since birth.

Filming ‘The Beheading of Daniel Pearl’

Week twelve. The special effects

guy has quit, citing ‘insensitive

subject matter’. Asshole. $300k

down. Maryland is no Pakistan

 

but between the minaret-necked

cormorants and hillbilly locals

I can’t tell the difference. Week

eighteen. The walk-on playing

 

Pearl’s Taliban executioner can’t

hold the replica scimitar steady,

doesn’t believe it won’t cut. I press

the edge against my right arm, point

 

to the dent, shallow as a GI’s crew-cut,

that it leaves. $500k down. The man

is still shaking. Dick. Week twenty-four.

Some pathetic loser has left a fake head

 

drooling ketchup outside my trailer. $2m

down. My head is already loosening itself

from the neck. I don’t need a gimmick to tell me

this is the worst death I’ve experienced yet.

(Previously published in Fuselit)

Observing the Wolf Man

The wolf man sitting opposite

on the train is thumbing through

a cheap paperback. His hairy

hands, thickened by moonlight,

carefully turn the tea-brown pages,

examining each description

and snippet of dialogue until they

are fully absorbed into his system

like water drunk from a wolf’s paw print.

I'd take a careful look at his face

to see his sulphur eyes, how much closer

he resembles the wolf than the dog,

but am afraid he might chow down

on my belly like in a B movie horror.

Isn't that the way we'd all like to go —

in full view of the camera, lights blaring,

the shadowed director stretching the length

of the moment until he shouts "Cut!"

and everything fades to white?

(Previously published in Prole)

Christian Ward is a UK-based writer who has recently appeared in the Tipton Poetry Journal, Ginosko Literary Journal, Dreich, Uppagus and the BlueHouse Journal.