Poetry: Selections from Damien Posterino

That night

Maybe we’ll never

dance like that again-

a second chance to

melt a miracle

in our mouths.  Wear red top hats,

bare naked chests, or jumplong lines that led straight to heaven. Hugs were tight because

we understood everything.

Snogging strangers as your hand

gripped a flyer for next weekend.  Gold coins for the homeless

because you wanted them happy too.

6am salt beef bagels, wide-eyed,mustard burning our nostrils.

Calls to some guy Gabbywho was always awake –

is he still alive? After-party dress-ups,

we never wanted to grow up.

 

It wasn’t supposed to end.

You promised me that night as

the crowd slipped away.

Squeezed my clammy hand-

whispered through my brain  

nothing would change.

You all got serious-

had kids, went to hide

in suburbs and countryside.

Calls have stopped but

my ears still ring. Walls creep closer,

bright lights have dimmed. I can’t remember

how to laugh again. Golden days

get dark in the end.

Beanstalks for fools

You were the last person

to give me goosebumps-

 

they are meant to warn off predators.

Little bristles electrocuted by

 

your smile, satellites stand to

steely attention, warning

 

the world while

puppy dog eyes submit.

 

You hand out promises

like bags of hard candy-

 

sugar rushes speeding

down blood’s highway.

 

Give me a transfusion

before that crash hits me again.

 

Desires in disguise

keeps a fool wanting more,

 

is there a vaccine for this?

I’ve always been interested in fairy tales,

 

stories more bent than you.

Give me magic coloured beans

 

to plant in quicksand.

I will strangle myself

 

on those vines that grow,

climbing through clouds to nowhere.

Take a ride on a suburban slide

At night I hold a pillow

in my arms

that doesn’t dance

or dream. Voices

used to scream to remind

me of my place-

hidden away under this duvet.  

 

Houses shift foundations-

creaking timber

plays its out of tune melody.

Old lonely men sing

similar songs, drowning in

moans and melancholy.

Lyrics tainted with whisky,

choruses of bile.

 

Neighbours laugh at

TV game shows.

Doorbells ring- suited

young men selling God.

Doors slam, dogs howl

for their masters.

 

Porno mags hide

in lofts under moth-eaten

wedding suits. Family

albums spit dust. Tattered

life jackets from the boat

that sank on a fishing trip,

just before

he deserted your mother.  

 

I close my eyes and remember

summer as a boy.

That smell of freshly cut grass.

Lying on my back,

listening to choirs of

lawn mowers

screaming to suburbia.

They were saying something.

True believers

Towns here follow false prophesies.

Crowds of zombies walk in circles,

 

three-word slogans

stapled to their tongues.

 

Houses lean together in desperation,

skinny chimneys have surrendered.

 

Mothers walk with hunched backs,

heads hung low, caught

 

in a permanent undertow.

Long lines wait for

 

handouts, humiliation  

poured onto the streets.

 

Whispers from the front of the queue

passed down to the meek- potatoes,

 

milk powder or nothing this week.  

Children lie in cemeteries & wait,

 

too hungry to play.

Attack dogs with attitude walk freely,

 

owners in collars and chains.

Empty promises linger like cancer,

 

bloated men and women

wipe away tears of joy.

 

County air smells of sulphur-

they soak in golden tubs & bubbles,

 

tutting at all the bad news in the papers.

Waves land on the sand with the brave,

 

war soiled & unwelcome.

Churches, cold & empty.

 

Pray to venture capital

& Unicorns.

The final story

The deed is done, nothing more to say.

Insects tip toe outside under darkness.

Someone screams to break the silence.

Neighbours’ heads kept down,

the deed is done.

 

The deed is done, inhale stale sticky air.

Dances of despair, she feels giddy.

Blank stares on a stick man’s face.

Hard memories rattle past,

the deed is done

 

The deed is done, a sleeping giant

awake from dreams to cold reality.

Frostbite devours another heart.

Lock the door behind for good,

the deed is done.

Damien Posterino (he/him) is a Melbourne-born, London-based poet who recently spent 18 months writing in Mexico. He explores characters, conversations, and captured moments in time. His work can be seen in over 30 different publications including A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Roi Fainéant Press, and The Madrigal. Follow him on Twitter