Midnight Echo 8

by AHWA

  It’s startin to rain and I can’t shake the feelin of bein watched, of bein laughed at, as I hunch against the wind and walk away, quick smart. Bloody cold out here.

  * * *

  When I get home, Suze is up, the kitchen reekin of Winnie Blue where she’s been pacin round the table. It’s covered in tinnies of bourbon and Coke.

  What are these? she asks, and chucks a pair of familiar knickers at me face, then shouts the question again. I snatch ‘em up, make a show of lookin at ‘em—reckon I can smell that familiar pong, musky, eh—then stuff ‘em in me pocket.

  Not yours, are they, I say. Been years since she coulda squeezed her arse into somethin that size.

  No fuckin kiddin. Whose are they?

  How the fuck would I know?

  Jayde had them. She was wearin them over her uniform. Practisin her Japanese.

  Her what?

  Japanese. From school.

  I hate the way her voice goes up at the end like that. Thought it was cute to begin with, but not now. From schoo-ool, she says, like I’m a drongo. But:

  Jayde don’t do Jap.

  Well, she was talkin it. Real good.

  Where is she?

  In her room. With that bloody cat. Glued together all night, the two of ‘em.

  I run up there. Knock and throw the door open. Jayde’s there, stretched out on the covers readin by the bedside lamp; she’s as long as the bed, all legs. But it’s not Jayde. It’s her … it’s No.7. Naked. She looks up over the comic book. You bring me back my underwear, Bevin? The cat is beside her, purrin like a two-stroke motor. Her eyes are so brown …

  Where’s me kid?

  Daddy? she mimics. It’s dark, Daddy. Can’t you see me, Daddy?

  She changes, then, flows like spilt beer, and she’s Jayde again, Jayde with brown eyes. Are we going, Daddy? Jayde asks. Are we going together?’

  I lunge for her. The cat leaps, scratches the fuck out of me hand, yowls like a brush cutter. I keep hold of the furry little cunt, though. Jayde shouts. Cries.

  I carry the hissin, screamin cat down to the livin room and fumble the bayonet from me pouch. Suze is shoutin, What the fuck are you doin to that cat? Put it down, Bev!

  I try to stab it but the cat twists and bites and scratches and I cut me hand and the mongrel bolts. I chase it but I’ve got no chance. I slam the screen door behind it and lean against the jamb, huffin. Me back feels like someone’s whipped me and chucked salt on it. Blood pisses from me hands. I feel all hazy, like.

  Serves you right, Suze says. You should lay off the JB.

  And she goes to bed to leave me to wash and wrap me hand, clean up the blood I’ve dripped all through the house.

  When I’m done, I realise Jayde’s at the doorway. Daddy? You didn’t hurt Kitty, did you?

  She’s gone home, I tell her. Where did you get … get the panties Mummy found you with?

  Kitty had them. They were a present. She scowls. I hope Kitty comes back.

  We’ll see.

  After she’s gone back to bed, I go to the Commodore and retrieve the box and stash No.7’s knickers in it. I hide the box in the laundry, up high, behind the old bottles of this, that and the other thing that Suze can’t reach without a stepladder. That’ll have to do. Maybe I should bury ‘em. Burn ‘em. But then I’d have nothin.

  Nothin.

  * * *

  I’m watchin TV. An old movie. Nastassja Kinski, remember her? Naked. Very tidy little unit. She’s a panther or some such bullshit. The bourbon’s pullin me down but me back’s sore and me hand’s sore and there’s rain outside, wind, thunder, the house shakin, groanin—growlin almost—and there’s just me and the telly and Nat and … and she’s kinda slinky and … and is she sneakin outta the TV? Kinda reachin out of it like some kind of Jap horror movie thing, all juddery and shivery, reachin like a stretchin cat, all dark and hungry-like, those big starin eyes and one clawed paw after another on the carpet, scratch, scratch, pad, pad …

  I bolt upright, the pain from me back slicin into me, drivin the sleepies away. It’s the bourbon and the shadows and the storm, and that bloody Kitty, gettin to me, that’s all. A touch of flu, maybe. But there’s the perfume. There’s the rain and the wind. And oh, No.7. I can feel her again amongst the needles and she’s slinkin across the floor on all fours, tits hangin down, now clawin up me legs, claws pokin through the denim of me jeans, the t-shirt over me gut, ouch and ouch, but I’m gettin hard. Her knickers are in me hand. Could’ve sworn I’d put ‘em in the box with the others but obviously didn’t, must’ve left ‘em in me pocket, and now she’s up to me face, long, pink tongue and those starin brown eyes under that fringe of black hair and I can smell her, fresh as baked pie.

  Let’s go, she says. Make me go. If you can. She rubs against me hard-on as she slides back down to the floor and turns, on all fours, her tight little arse towards me as the TV flickers and the lightnin flashes; cat now, tail up, darin me, chuckin out that brown eye; flash, and she’s No.7 again, pink eye winkin, a beacon. Flash, flash.

  I’m breathin hard, body throbbin, one big bruise all hot and clammy with sweat; the room’s thick with the stink of come and wet earth and pine.

  No.7 faces me, lies back, naked and pale with her legs open to show off that Barbie-smooth muff. The cat’s at her shoulder, both of ‘em blinkin at me with their big brown eyes.

  I fall on her, hard, there on the floor. She’s moanin, oh, oh, go, go, and her nails are in me shoulders and neck and back.

  And now I got a surprise for her. Here, from behind the cushion.

  I stab her. Again and again, the bayonet slurpin and thumpin.

  She lies still and I stand, groggy, jeans all sticky inside and out and there’s blood fuckin everywhere: all over her, over the rug, over me. I head for the kitchen to wash and I hear this sound, real tiny, like the last bit of air from a balloon, a squeak that pulls me up dead cold: Daddy.

  One streaked hand lifts from the rug, reachin. Eyes glimmer in the TV glare.

  Jayde?

  Jayde!

  The cat sits on the window sill, lickin its paws as though markin a job well done.

  I look at the ruined body, and the cat and I both know that this … this will be in the papers.

  * * *

  The cat follows me to the garage. It watches me find the rope and the stepladder. Its tail throws two shadows. I throw only one. The knot. The push. The drop and fatal jerk. The gooks might’ve got Dad and me, but the fuckers don’t get to gloat.

  But then I’m gaspin, the rope cuttin into me, vision poppin, and the pain—the pain is somethin else as me legs kick and dangle and me ears fill with me own slow death, fingers scratchin at the rope. Beneath me feet, near the ladder I’ve knocked over, the knickers make a pool of wrinkled white against the concrete. I can still smell ‘em; them and piss.

  The cat jumps from this to that, bounce-bounce-bounce up and through the slit of the window and out into the storm, and I’m happy the furry bitch ain’t stickin round to celebrate.

  And then I hear Jayde.

  The sound of her voice is like a lightnin flash, everythin suddenly bright and clear and suspended in that one stark, unbelievable moment. I struggle to turn, to swing, rope creakin and it’s the sound of bones bein pulled apart. I see through the little window, all wet and wavery because of me tears, little Jayde. There at the back door, callin again: Here, Kitty; Here, Kitty-Kitty. Oh yeah, the fuckin gooks got us; like father, like son. Got us good, the cunts.

  I thrash. Thunder shakes the garage. I try to scream, to shout her name, but there’s nothin but wet gaggin sounds and a hot acid burn and razor blades at the back of me eyes. The cat springs into her arms, and Jayde cuddles it like it was a baby. She turns back towards the house. Last thing I see as I swing away kickin and cryin an
d chokin into the dark, is that fuckin cat starin back over Jayde’s shoulder at me.

  Gallows & Blooms

  Andrew Alford

  Now that’s a piece of carpentry!

  So many things—invisible—

  infuse the stage and magic props:

  the thought that went into the slipknot noose,

  drop-board and mathematician’s calculations

  of the body’s quarter turn

  that snaps the neck

  yet keeps the head screwed on …

  The steps cannot be counted going up—

  such would depend whose feet

  and where those feet began—

  but mounted they become just one:

  the foetal ghost, born through the door

  on greased hemp taut as a pole,

  swings on the melodies of nightingale floors,

  till nothing.

  Gone.

  Then,

  driven through the sleeve of morning papers,

  the face of the annihilated

  blooms.

  Tartarus

  Poetry Column #1

  Charles Lovecraft

  Mortals who have spoken the language of the Gods!

  —H. P. Lovecraft

  1. Insight? All right, all right, educate me!

  Poetry has been with us for thousands of years as a highly valued form of human expression. It continues to be a form and a source of vital human expression today. It might, therefore, warrant a closer look at its meaning and construction, in the expectation of gaining insight, and a deeper understanding and appreciation of its scope, purpose and enduring capacity for enriched enjoyment. This column will explore issues of critical perception, appreciation and understanding of this amazing life-force vehicle and energy that is poetry.

  * * *

  The Persistence of Poetry

  The oldest surviving literature known to humankind is at least six thousand years old, and one of the very oldest known forms of that literature is poetry. From out of the mists of time, poems such as the Epic of Gilgamesh (c. 4000 BC) and the Enuma Elish (1100–2500 BC) open windows on the past and illuminate human aspirations and dreams. Through those windows shine the human expression of poetry. Poetry was in antique times; it is still with us today, as vital, vibrant and imaginative as ever. This demonstrates the curious and pertinacious persistence of the form in our human need and in the make-up of our collective psyche. Poetry is an ancient art form, yet is one that, like music, painting, sculpture, and writing, remains with us continuously, and permanently, throughout our history. Poetry is a constant.

  * * *

  Two roads diverged in a wood... Poetry and prose—similarities and divergences

  Poetry and prose share many elements. Verbal language and communication are at their core; their formal written expression also permits oral expression. The purpose of each is to express and communicate, through language, sometimes complex almost incommunicable knowledge. Ostensibly, poetry consists of grammatical sentences written, just like prose, in a logical or conventionally-meaningful sequence down a page, seeking to convey some message.

  In this sense poetry is indistinguishable from prose—it employs literate sentences, using correct syntax, semantics, logical construction, grammar, punctuation, contemporary usage (occasionally period usage in a historical piece), action, description, drama, sense, meaning, literary devices and so on.

  However, poetry diverges from prose in the following ways. It is composed in mainly short lines whereas prose uses full normal lines on a page. Poetry commonly, but not always, employs metre (meter) whereas this is quite uncommon in prose. Although there are very long poems such as epics, poetry is characterised by a keen sense of brevity so that as a form of expression it demands conciseness and aptness. And it is characterised by a sense of elevated expression and meaning.

  * * *

  Short lines

  The short lines of poetry can be visually arresting and intriguing. They might be perceived in a theatrical or dramatic way, of visually creating impact, emphasis and statement. In prose, short stabbing comments are sometimes broken off from a main paragraph mid-sentence. In poetry, the impact of short lines and line breaks create similar intensity in reading. The lines grab (like a boxing ring); the words hit like punches. Or, put differently, the short lines and the line breaks are the stems and petals of flowers, and the words themselves are the perfume that spills from them.

  From another perspective, the short lines of the poetic form may function as pictorially splendid and symbolically revealing. Some poets see poetry as the shape around a poem, and just as integral to meaning. The space and its shape, may create a visual impulse or impact, provide a sense of the construction of the poem, or a hint of what else may be intended, though it is only circling the words invisibly, a meaning, something, shaping thought, or what is missing by having been left out. It may well be that shapes represent subconscious symbolism or even archetypal visioning and meaning, and this adds to the meaning of the words through the patterning of language by poets.

  * * *

  Metre (Meter)

  The intoxicating, heady experience of poetry is created, at least in part, by the use of metre. Metre is a kind of pulse or heartbeat and it is central to the rhythm so recognisable in sung poetry, what we simply refer to as songs.

  Metre, the pulse of poetry, is controlled by the number, order and placement of syllables in a line of verse. It is used for sound. It is created for rhythm. Metre creates and enhances the rhythm of thoughts in sound, and affects how a poem may be read and heard. Rhythm affects the sound of a spoken line and creates mood by defining ongoing pace, whether it be, for instance, lilting or rollicking or sonorously measured.

  Metre places the accents of words in synergistic spots. It sequences similar and dissimilar accents to achieve sound effects that reinforce mood and meaning. With metre, the poet aligns the normal accenting of spoken words in a highly refined and proficient manner to create specific rhythm and compound sound effects. Metre propagates rhythm via cadence in poetry, and the end result may be quite splendorous, mnemonic, musical, and hypnotic.

  * * *

  Brevity

  The brevity of poetic expression demands clarity of focus, aptness of expression and conciseness. Emotions and actions, events and outcomes, plots and transpirations, are communicated in the briefest of portrayals, and sometimes even by implied expression. This very brevity of expression makes every word and punctuation mark in the poem important, pregnant with engineering, and cryptic with meaning. Each mark in a poem, whether a word, punctuation device or merely a space, may be explicitly or implicitly vital to the intention of the whole poem. In this sense a poem itself becomes a magnifying glass on every word, thought, deed, emotion, action, event, hope, wish, life, and chance expressed by the poet in their personal creativity universe.

  * * *

  Elevation

  Often poetry is expressed in a more formal or elevated linguistic register, and from an elevated standpoint. As used here ‘register’ refers to the level of diction used, or word and usage choice; ‘standpoint’ refers to levels of personal perception. Poetry itself could be described as the elevated expression of events, actions, emotions, thoughts and dramatic unfoldings revealed through the prism of the individual poet’s consciousness. Due to the characteristic brevity of the form, for example, eight lines of ten syllables as opposed to say a thousand-page prose novel, there is minimal scope for extended descriptions and explanation. So aptness and vividness are givens. These form the rapier’s tip for the inked carving up of a white page with the hieroglyphs and images of emotion, action, verve. Precision of expression virtually forces the higher intellectual capacities and abilities to advance their best attributes, and elevated creativity ensues.

  * * *

&nb
sp; To summarise, short lines, metrical precision, compactness of thought, brevity of expression, and elevated composition, all set in a forged crown of golden articulation—correct and coherent grammatical construction—make poetry a jewel among art forms. Drink ye of the liqueur of words, the palate dissolves dismay!

  2. Reading by Lamps Old and New

  This section will feature information on old and new weird and fantasy poetry publications, and the occasional personal favourite. Where possible and if still current, publishers’ websites will be noted down for reference.

  * * *

  Hippocampus Press (www.hippocampuspress.com)

  The landmark fantastic poetry publication of the first decade of the new millennium has to be Clark Ashton Smith: The Complete Poems and Translations (2007–08). This massive three-volume edition edited by S.T. Joshi and David E. Schultz is a lode vein—and the whole mine!—of the exotic fabulism that is the poetry and prose of Clark Ashton Smith. In 2012 it has been released in paperback form. Here is a fragment from the tremendous power and beauty of this unearthly poet’s work, from his most famous poem, “The Hashish-Eater”:

  * * *

  Bow down: I am the emperor of dreams;

  I crown me with the million-colored sun

  Of secret worlds incredible, and take

  Their trailing skies for vestment when I soar,

  Throned on the mounting zenith, and illume