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Don’t...!
by Harris Coverley
Don’t peek in there
Don’t go in that house
Don’t “hang” in the basement
Don’t check out the attic
Don’t turn around
Don’t be a hero
Don’t be a dweeb
Don’t whistle after midnight
Don’t attend the high school
dance
Don’t go to the beach party
Don’t be a slut
Don’t be a virgin
Don’t be macho
Don’t be kind and gentle
Don’t be clueless
The monster is coming
And he has taken the form of
your brother
Or maybe your father
Don’t trip over a branch
Don’t slip on the leaves
Don’t run out of gas
Don’t split up into smaller
groups
Don’t go and see where Johnny
went
Don’t wonder what the neighbours
might have heard
Don’t investigate that noise
Don’t go and look out the window
The monster is coming
It can smell your fear
And taste your blood already
Don’t just stand there—RUN!
RUN—and don’t ask!
Helios
Grimm
by
Harris Coverley
eyelids torn like wet toilet
paper
the awakening
an explosion
the trees outside
with those
branches
black veins against
the dirt
blue sky
pulsing hard
throbbing with
the blood of the
scrub
the whole world
silently screaming
firstly my name,
and then something
like:
hey, I’m here . . .
hey, I’m here . . .
hey, I’m here . . .
a billion times in two seconds
before I close
my eyes
and retreat back
to the other
place.
some dreams are
just the day
wearing a mask
of dark light.
Hunter
by Harris
Coverley
my many victims
truculent—yet succulent
great to be undead
The Mauler by Harris Coverley He took off his
glasses And
then pulled off his jumper in one quick move Along with his T-shirt And he showed me his
chest tattoo: ANCOAT
LADS 1993 In dull ink Between sagging pectorals Fair and greying
skin stretched across a withering frame With a few threads of muscle left for show “I’ll never stop
crimin’ me,” He
told me “I’ve
made too much money from it for me to stop
now!” I roughly calculated
his net profit in my head: About £5.32 Plus thirteen years inside He pulled his top back on And replaced his
glasses Cheap
but modern A
gift from Her Majesty “So boy, if you see this face, you’d
better start runnin’!” He tapped on the bars with his knuckles And then against his
chest (They
almost made the same sound) He opened his mouth
to stretch his jaw Revealing
a throng of brown-capped stubs I decided to take
his advice And
knocked on the steel door To have the guard
let me out It had been an
interesting interview Not
a good one But
an interesting one.
The Mob by Harris Coverley one mouth spread across two
thousand holes with
anything up to sixty-four
thousand teeth between
them all screaming all shouting all grinding torches alight the stomping of four
thousand feet the
rustle of coats the
frequent spitting the
occasional chortling four thousand hands whipping on you scoring you tearing you blistering exhausted
skin shattering
flesh but upon your own
lips a
bitten tongue licking the blood away you manage to offer
them from
the heap of you on the ground a
response: “never . . . I say .
. . never . . .”
Along with previously
in Yellow Mama, Harris Coverley has verse published or forthcoming
in Polu Texni, Spectral Realms, California
Quarterly, Corvus Review, The Oddville Press, Better
Than Starbucks, EgoPHobia, 5-7-5 Haiku Journal,
and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.
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