Yellow Mama Archives II

Harris Coverly

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Allen, R. A.
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Andes, Tom
Arnold, Sandra
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Costello, Bruce
Coverly, Harris
Crist, Kenneth James
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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 RealmsCalifornia QuarterlyCorvus ReviewThe Oddville PressBetter Than StarbucksEgoPHobia5-7-5 Haiku Journal, and many others. He lives in Manchester, England.

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