Hunger

When the End came,

this final End,

we were biting at our nails,

chewing on our lips,

tugging at the memories of our mothers skirts,

waiting the safe embrace of our long-dead fathers.

Greed had long left us hungry,

famine had devoured us;

thirst had left us dry,

our bodies shrivelling under the sun.

Hunger, conflict had scorched this earth, robbing

men of their hearts and us of our future,

our mothers raped, tortured, killed,

left to desiccate on this barren land,

ghosts they became,

ghosts of what was,

ghosts of what is.

We became carrion feeders,

teeth tearing at the souls of the dead,

sating our hunger with flesh,

our teeth grinding on their bones,

the bones the flesh of our mothers our fathers,

our brothers our sisters,

our friends, of strangers, of enemies -

for in us is a will to survive,

a will to live.

When only the living remained

we ate each other

and we began to eat ourselves,

one hungry mouthful at a time.

There are other predators,

those who are stronger than us.

The dogs are the worse,

savage in their packs,

as savage as we have become,

maybe always were.. 

I think they will inherit this earth;

they have the teeth for it,

the hunger.

Anna :o]

Kerry at Real Toads has us writing Speculative Fiction and above is my offering. 

If I were one of the last survivors in this possible future world, the dogs would worry me very much, oh so very much…

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United.  Cheers for hosting Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Source:  Wellcome Images

Starlings

There, outside, starlings squawk

squeaking squabbling

fighting over suet balls – posturing,

peck-peck-peck-pecking.

Wings flutter,    then flapping beating,

feet outstretched, threatening threatening.

Battles quickly won, winners’

peck-peck-peck at (suet) prizes,

losers peckng scattered titbits - 
‘til the next war, (in moments moments,)

then they’ll squawk and fight again

Here, inside, we squabble

over little things, the minutiae, the meaningless,

as if our sorry lives depended on it. 

Posturing, chins jutted out,

teeth bared; lips curled & snarled,

we lace into one another,

venom in our screeching voices.

You win this time, even if by default –

I’ll no longer, can’t be bothered

to play this losing game, this silly blaming game,

where (somehow) you believe

I’m the driver in your sorry stupid life.

You preen like some vain cock,

cock-a-hoop over shallow victory,

smile smirking across your stupid face. 

Whilst I, defeated by the pain the chore of it,

seethe so strongly deep inside, &

mutter silent words in venom breaths.

Outside, now, all starlings gone,

two wood-pigeons coo and woo,

he follows her across the lawn,

tries to mount and with a flap of wings

she flies away, he follows her,

pursues his love…

I wish I could fly away but I’m still here

squawking screeching deep inside,

seething, spitting silent venom

whilst putting out new suet balls. 

Anna o]

Inspired by watching the birds in my garden, the human bit is pure fiction.  

Shared with the good folk at Poets United, hosted by Mary, cheers Mary!

Video courtesy of YouTube

Pills

She spills some on her palm, runs her finger through the little moving mound (a pretty shade of pastel blue) of her mother’s little helpers (“that don’t fucking help this fucking mother one miserable iota”).

She’s anxious still, all screwed up, the little pills don’t help at all, amongst other things she’s now  all screwed up about the stinging side effects, feels drunk without a drink.

If someone could get inside my head, they’d know, (she thinks) know how miserable, how screwed up I am, but no-one gives a damn about silly little me.

It’s true, her husband is tired of her/tired of it, she drags him down into her melancholy, he dreads every single day. The kids are sick of her, sick of being a mother to their mother, and wish she’d go away, be hospitalised, be normalised so they could be kids again.

She eyes the pills again, the pills she’s spilled upon her palm, gets anxious about the harm she’ll cause (if she takes every sodding one) of those she’ll leave behind.  She loves them still, her lovely hubs and kids, but knows they’d be better rid of her.

She finds herself suddenly strong. Even though a longing in her heart for all she loves, she cups her palm, swallows all (and other meds), doused down with her favoured alcohol.

She is confident she will sleep tonight – perhaps (she hopes) forever – and no doubt she will.  And those left behind will spill their tears, but (perhaps) will quietly be relieved…

Anna :o[

Inspired and written for Paul at dVerse, who asks us to write of medicine.

Working (as I did) with those problemed with mental ill-health, I know of the devastating affect this can have on the entire family, know that family members will/might become estranged from those experiencing mental ill-health, will ‘suffer’ almost as much as they.  It is a difficult problem. 

I have only ‘suffered’ with clinical depression once in my life, due to external factors that I could not change.  Once the situation was resolved (by others) it took some time to recover, be me again. 

Prior to this, in my late thirties, I began to experience severe PMS, something I did not believe existed until it (literally) dropped on me and the uncontrollable anger that came with this, because of it, was unstoppable.    When it ‘dropped’ I recognised it, explained to my family my friends and my patients that I was ‘like this’ because of it… and felt it right to inform, so they would know that my anger was remote from them, not their fault.

But I knew, they knew (by explanation), that it was transient –not their fault.  Some don’t have this luxury…

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels  

Signatures

All I do is long for you.

Candle flickers,

gramophone spins old 45,

see you dancing in the shadows…

old sweater hugged

smells of you,

fills me up…

tobacco-kissed DNA,

remains of you among the ashes. 

I see you 

on the lips of long-emptied glasses,

whisky-scented,

cold breath whispering 

I was here.

Anna :o]

An oldie reworked and abridged for Hedge's 55.

Also shared with the good folk at Poets United - cheers for hosting Mary.

Image:  Courtesy of Pexels