Pinholes invite
bored spectators;

quotidian provider
of furtive splendour,
abstruse thrills.

Narrow tunnels loom ahead.

Black or yellow stripes?

Concave distortion,
blurred vision;

pock-marked glass
still the faithful sender
of necessary mirages.

Steam rises above
the tarmac road;
deepening knoll,
acrid smell
of burning smoke.

Monstrous steam-rollers converging ahead!

Black Car, wriggling
eel of misfortune,
separates itself from
the vehicular shoal,
coming to rest
at a bony shoulder
constantly pricked
by thorny bushes.

A blue shirt stretched
potbelly hanging over
exhausted leather belt

His squinting eyes
shielded with a
ruddy hand against
punishing summer,

and a curiously
despondent tire.

Soon, a silver rivet
in pinched fingers;
its intent giving
an insouciant wink,

the incoming
apoplectic vein


in the reflection
of his eyes.

“Who got at my
car again – !”


Rusty cranes,
a wattle of mottled red
hands, stitching
fingers hexagonal,

an upside-down
isoceles triangle.

A fancy modernistic home
in Scandivania,
a modest roost
for windblown pigeons.

Nestlings or starvelings?
It all depends.

Some dubious flag
flutters, of whom the breeze
easily makes a grand dame.

Sky-high ambition, forthcoming –

Still, not every old lady’s insane.


Silent motorcycle helmet,
make-shift totem, draped
a casual blue jean jacket –

Why did it take me this long to know:
“Vlad wasn’t the impaler!”

James Dean eyes, cool jock
glasses. Invisible visage,
fictitious smile.

Great actors put on a thousand
masks tirelessly, it seems.

I stretch my fingers out,
humanoid form
of a cunning spider’s legs –
and a makeshift mouth appears.

There you go.

I would have put
an imaginary cigarette
in his mouth

I fear,
makes me itch
for days.

(Banged this one out for Poetry Riot‘s #RiotPrompt for Week One Hundred And Ten)

© Zelda Reville


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