'Flash' writing anthology about chronic pain - submissions welcome!
| ‘Bus stop’ by Matt Alton |
The passer by denies my existence
with the confidence of their gait,
the steadiness of their gaze.
I peel back layers of skin
to show the shining mess, but
each time I’m swallowed by earth –
which in case you’ve forgotten
is cold, full of dead, sharp things.
It’s like fucking an iron maiden –
which, in case the information passed you by,
is a fictionalised torture device.
Make of that what you will.
United Kingdom
The passer by denies my existence
with the confidence of their gait,
the steadiness of their gaze.
I peel back layers of skin
to show the shining mess, but
each time I’m swallowed by earth –
which in case you’ve forgotten
is cold, full of dead, sharp things.
It’s like fucking an iron maiden –
which, in case the information passed you by,
is a fictionalised torture device.
Make of that what you will.
– by Matt Alton
United Kingdom
I woke up a wilted rose
My petals were crushed
a thousand tempests
My thorns turned inwards
striking my stem
Worms crawled all over me
Yet
my roots were intact
– by Angelina Bong
Malaysia
It came to visit last week. No warning at Three am. One turn in my bed and here it is. Stealing my long breaths. Grasping the hand rail, I try to turn on my side. The red-hot cattle prod steals my spine. The pain splinters through my nerves screaming. One, two, three jabs in seconds, breathe I try to tell my nerves, muscles and sinews to rest. To no avail. I need a wee, no hope here. Hold and breathe. Stuck like a fly in a web. Its close by and ready to pounce if I try to breathe too long, if I try to twitch a muscle it will attack. I feel glued in on this bed, like a weight is pinning me down. It stayed for five long days before freeing me from its snare. Trapped nerves you are despair.
UK
Punch views images from the lead-lined room
of hunched, misshaped bones.
Punch dances round the room –
head on a pole,
chest iron-maiden bound
with extra spikes,
hips a claggy crucible,
wooden knees.
Mismatched red socks sneak
past frozen feet,
up past stiffened ankles.
Punch plays St Sebastian.
Punch is put to the rack —
stretched, heaved, bent, twisted.
“You manage quite well, considering,” puffs the osteopath.
Locked inside the Lord of Misrule’s body
I don’t know whether to be pleased – or not.
England
There is a snuffing out
when the synapses stop firing.
The ex-wives fade to black.
His hawks blink.
Extinguished.
The Co-op, Jesus, trains and snow glimmer.
Cut.
Planets spin off the axons.
Our kisses are ashes
blown to the wind.
He lies alone, like a great house
with all it’s furniture moved out;
windows smeared with grease,
electrics, plumbing in such disarray,
builders would suck their teeth,
shrug, turn away.
Flick a switch, see the neurons crackle.
Smell the burning.
United Kingdom
I am your pain.
Like Puck; quicksilver, impish, mischief-making.
You’re easily fooled, you make my nonsense real, you feel what is not true.
I stab and prickle, or transform into
A metal straitjacket, squeezing your foot, your leg.
Imprisoned.
Around each toe, elastic bands pulled tight.
You call me neuropathy; I say there’s no such thing,
Your foot, your leg, your left side, are my playthings.
When you sit quiet or sleep, I perch on your bed,
Waiting for you to move, when I will strike
Half-numb, like an injection in the gum where you can’t smile or chew,
Half feather-sensitive, you jump awake
When the duvet’s pulled so gently by a sleeping partner; he is unaware
That you lie, struggling to relax, to breathe it out, make it go away…
But I don’t leave. I will never leave.
I control. I rule you. I am king.
Wales
She stands uncertainly inside the cubicle, exposed to light from a dozen UV tubes.
Machinery hums softly, the seconds tick away.
A narrow slit connects her to the outside world.
Friends have seen her skin, inflamed and bleeding, her swollen eyelids. She hasn’t mentioned synapse pain, the 2am, 3am, 4am explosions waking her, holding back the edge of sleep, just out of reach.
She hears the hum die down; the door swings open.
Gentle hands steady her, lift the visor, remove her goggles.
Back on terra firma, the treatment room, she dresses slowly.
The techie’s voice reminds her to shower cool, to wear soft clothes, to moisturise.
‘Let me know if you are sore, just call.’
She wonders what she’s done to deserve such kindness or is this simply how the world should be?
And even though her treatment’s hardly started something breaks inside. She dreads its ending.
UK
twitter: @josephsyard
I feel the music
This orchestra of mine
I jest your intimacy
Embracing every shard
With love and warmth
But should you say goodbye
And leave me before I die
I shall stand and run and dance
To an air of triumph!
But should you chance to be
With me ‘til the end
No matter if we both
Entwine the undergrowth
And lie together meekly
Til the last note gently
Fades away…
Further information: https://poetryatnightblog.wordpress.com/
morphine tastes nasty, ive called it ‘the devil’s cough syrup’ before. it’s sickly sweet and cloying, but you know what’s Weird? when you first take that spoonful into your mouth, it’s not that bad. not great, it’s still medicine, but it’s tolerable. only when you attempt to swallow it does it make its true terribleness known.
England
© 2024 Translating Chronic Pain: Moments and Fragments
Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑