SurVision Magazine
An
international online magazine that
publishes Surrealist poetry
in English.
Issue Seven
PATRICK CHAPMAN
Rider
Milk to pour
back into my breast.
A sleeping bag
to match my shoes.
Instant coffee, black,
to go with item fourteen.
Shampoo.
That is all. Shampoo.
Hens to make a set
of living dusters.
Puppies to release
static electricity.
Polonium to suicide
by Hamlet's laser sword.
Elvis P. not C.,
and only if expired.
Horsemeat cappuccino
for the Corsicans.
Period
biltong.
An operating manual
for a planet such as this.
Pebbles from a beach
on fire in the Arctic.
A powerful vibrator
for when I am too bored to live.
Acoustic cigarettes.
I shall never go electric.
Moomin
dumplings.
All of the above
or none –
I do not mind
as long as you bring
single malt Scotch
and a snorkel.
Pangolin
Pick it up used
at the heartbreak emporium.
Last of its kind.
A real doer-upper.
Ignore the machete
lacerations.
Forget the viral load
in its blood.
This late in the game,
we all carry baggage.
Sure,
it has seen better days
but never has it met
anyone so bent
on getting it going again
like new.
At the end, have its ashes
pressed into pills
for you to ingest
and put yourself to sleep.
Calibre
walls burst in the dark
joining the shapes
together
to grow into
something moving
a skeletal
charcoal
erasure
a photographic plate
catches a shadow
your breaths
are metronomes
on valium
sometimes
you have to cough
just to get them
to tick
bone
ash
rays
burn you
to save you
kill yourself
better
some day
a trace of
an uncertain effect
a discolouration on the skin of time
first clock
strikes
then others
one by one
stars
a window
opens in the sky
a woman
enters
peers
into their faces
at the cool
mechanics
a continuum
of the
unable to bear silence
she opens up
the last stopped clock
and winds it
Patrick Chapman lives in Dublin. He is the author of eight poetry collections including Slow Clocks of Decay (Salmon, 2016) and Open Season on the Moon (Salmon, 2019).
