LITERARY
ThomasWhittaker (Year 12) Three poems by
Elephants i remember reading this years before i read it myself – the fields of wheat bleached trains stone like elephants the sun rusted yellow a cloud is orange over black rails – years before anything else – all the streets easy signs from what was left behind a river widens in the heat maze – this sounds like it turning into stone, years in a few months – cornfields sway lazily one eye on the clock that isn’t there turning are lost so i found them
OneMore Time
EndCredits like the end credits of a film pairs of feet roll
the morning with one eye half snapped shut see thru a slit, razed by the night before – the door opens – the birds slope in, slurring, bottles like bars, its pitch bending on both knees, might breathe – the keys drip to the concrete – terrace but no crowd, no flags clouds as plastic as chairs scratched and beaten and used to beat – the sun rises a few hours late – numb, as lost as the supermarket, carpet up n down as graphs on the tv, i see all the programmes, he knows as clown – the tape machine comes out – under thumbs the heads sit, the dead scrape themselves into shapes they said pencil as knife – pencil as knife – curved as a bike wheel swerved, nails in the tyre – nails in toes, the skirting board ripped them out
forward and the limbs lift up the curtain slips and the shutter clicks and shutters come down quick and the streetlights will trace your way home, a camera over its shoulder, the rain will pop and splutter as a cough from laughter, the popcorn will clatter to the floor, smashed glass after, the water will creep down your hair and drown like a phone call to a tower or shouting thru the letterbox and beating down the door
pages and the weak became heroes castle
in a flood running round tracks arrive
in a crowd – yet nothing means anything – the posters turning faded on the wall but they will never fall down
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