Poetry: Selections from Joe Haward

Perfection

She strains her body

Every sinew searching the extremities

Physical form challenging unknown possibilities

Mental capacity teetering on the edge of darkness.

 

Her image mocks

Cruel laughter

Refrained praise

A reflection of what she will never be.

 

She glides across the stage

Fouettés on pointe

The audience gasp

Enraptured.

 

The curtain falls

Applause fading into the whispers of the night

Her breath caught in regret

Sweat falling where tears fear to tread.

 

Alone again

The chasm of perfection threatens to swallow her

Excoriating mouths haunting

Distorted icons of castigation hovering.

 

Her body bends

Fluidity and motion harmoniously bound together

Adage

Impressions of ease masking the war within.

 

The crowd craves her

Ballet masters critique her

Family love her

The compulsion of id drives her.

 

Final notes of music echo off the walls

Reverberation from wood and satin humming across the floor

Silence meeting her in fevered rest.

 

Maybe tomorrow.

(in)visible(ill)ness

Dissolved beneath noxious platitudes, each

one served like fetid gruel. “Eat up!”

the masters of civility chime,

ungratefulness

the

unforgivable

sin.

Shards of pain mimic sunlight through window’s pane,

shattering medicinal veil, a reminder of all that is

lost.

“Smile, it could be worse!”

Society’s theater raises the curtain, so take a bow before

your jaded crowd. The show must go on/on

and on it goes, agony’s switch

never

turns

off.

Last Orders

Shit.

It’s been ten years,

seventy three days

and too many fucking hours

since I had a drink.

Shot. Chaser. Kill me.

 

Do you miss it?

No.

I’ve always found it easy to lie.

Are you drunk again?

No.

Ring me tomorrow?

Okay.

Do you love me?

Sure.

 

Sobriety wouldn’t be a problem

if the world wasn’t so banal.

Influencers influencing insipid interests,

wishing I could watch society

through hazy eyes.

Temptation burns to slither into paradisiacal secrets,

it will do me good.

Trust me,

my truth is 40% proof.

 

I’ll sleep the boredom off,

opioids and streaming

numbing culture’s hangover.

Fuck me,

I need a drink.

Joe Haward is the author of two nonfiction books that explore the intersection between humanity, faith, film, and culture. As a horror writer, poet, freelance journalist, and book reviewer, his work has appeared, and is upcoming across multiple sites, in various anthologies and publications, including Byline Times, Cinnabar Moth Publishing, Ghost Orchid Press, Horror Oasis, Cosmic Horror Monthly, and Outcast Press.