David A. Green

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Original text in yellow, anagram in pink.

A poem by Ruth Sharman.

Hunger

Sometimes only bread will do:
warm loaves
torn open to expose
their soft insides -
bending low, you breathe
their silky sweetness,
dig deep, like a cat,
with eyes half closed,
kneading its memory of milk.

Some days only baked beans will do me,
with eggs in tomato sauce
washed down with three pints of beer.
Next, Mom's grilled sirloin steak
or kidney pie - love it!
For pud - yes, some Greek cheese.
Then I'll fart noisily!

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The Operation by Danielle Willis

a girl at work came in
one morning with gouges all
up and down her left arm
she said she thought there
was a worm living
under the skin and
wanted to see for herself
there were a bunch of us
hanging out on the stairs
putting on makeup and
drinking coffee and
nobody paid a
whole lot of attention to
the girl with the gouges
who pulled on a pair of
elbow length gloves and
announced that she
had always wanted to be
a surgeon.

It's called Ekbom syndrome after the renowned foreign neurologist who wrote all about it. Wretched women patients would report an unending infestation of maggots under the flesh of the forehand (or gagging beetle eggs under the tongue). Wounding and wanton mutilation can follow. Awkward to treat, though new drugs have shown an advantage. By luck, delusional parasitosis in people is skin deep. HAH! HAH! HAH! HAH! HAH!

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The place was dark and dusty and half-lost
In tangles of old alleys near the quays,
Reeking of strange things brought in from the seas,
And with queer curls of fog that west winds tossed.
Small lozenge panes, obscured by smoke and frost,
Just showed the books, in piles like twisted trees,
Rotting from floor to roof - congeries
Of crumbling elder lore at little cost.

I entered, charmed, and from a cobwebbed heap
Took up the nearest tome and thumbed it through,
Trembling at curious words that seemed to keep
Some secret, monstrous if one only knew.
Then, looking for some seller old in craft,
I could find nothing but a voice that laughed.

Hiding within a maze of passages
Close to the port, where rotten litter stank,
I found the remote bookshop, cooped and dank,
Befouled with smells and noisome leakages.
Rooms full of bloodstained vellum; cursed pages
Like fungous blooms (mutant yet swollen growths!)
Clung loftward there. There, I knew it, were myths -
Legends telling of some dark-centred Age.

I rooted out one bunch of old grimoires,
Blotched with bright mould and cysts. Loath to tarry,
I scanned those ancient sheets and tattered quires,
Keen to enquire of Cthulhu's starry
Realm. No booktrading babble - just, far-off,
The stirrings of some strange and spectred scoff.

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Updated: May 10, 2016


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