Christopher Hivner

The Perpetual Motion Machine

Christopher Hivner

Lying rigid,

the good little soldier,

she waited

for him to finish

and roll off.

He starts to

smack her ass

as he plows through her

like a train

late for the station.

She looks into his

cold, dead eyes,

black diamond mirrors.

She looked old,

too old to still have

her legs in the air

for him.

But who is she then,

if not his wife?

Not a mother,

no children.

She never liked being

a sister or daughter,

not in her family.

He grunted.

The smacks were harder,

her skin felt hot.

Was it still her skin

or was it his now?

She tried to protest

but he didn't hear

or didn't care.

His hands moved over her breasts

pinching and pawing.

She was getting tired,

why did it always

have to hurt?

He finally came,

unloading sloppily

inside of her

and over her thigh.

His eyes shined

shaking hands

with his smile,

a reptilian circle.

She lay still,

waiting for him to get off

but he just stared at her,

as though he knew

what she

had been thinking.

**************

Facts about Bones

by Christopher Hivner

Bones are alive

when covered

with skin

Bones remain

after the muscle and flesh

decay

Bones tell stories

when found

by educated hands

Bones are delicious

in my soup

when I’m done with the bodies

Bones have to be

buried deep

so the police can’t find them

Bones of my victims

want to be found

but I am their master

More than Oxygen

By Christopher Hivner

It lay on the spoon,

flattened by her finger,

white flecks

that she needed

more than oxygen.

Her dry tongue

flicked between her lips,

a half-dead snake

anticipating nirvana.

She flicked her lighter,

moving it under the curve

of the utensil

but it didn’t look right,

the fire

not the right color

and then she saw a figure

in the flame

that glowed white

and hissed,

the face was featureless

but she heard it speak:

“Don’t.”

She closed the lighter,

the spoon shaking

in her other hand,

her life’s blood

spilling onto the table top.

Flick,

the flame sparked once more,

this time though

the figure undulated

in dark waves,

leaping at her

and laughing:

“It’s all you have.”

She closed the lighter,

laying the spoon down

before she dropped it.

Trembling, she caressed

the silver casing

of the lighter,

then opened it part way.

The flame was compressed,

wiggling for freedom

to grow,

reaching for the spoon

to do its job,

but around the eager

black flame

was wrapped a straining

white arm of fire

holding it back.

She lay down on the sofa

holding the lighter close,

ignoring her spoon,

denying the white net.

She closed the top,

opened it again,

closed,

open,

dazzled by the leaping flame,

orange, yellow, red, blue,

each color whispering to her.

She held it

under her hair

singeing the dirty blond ends,

the crackle

alighting in her ears,

the acrid smell

swelling in her nose.

She moved the lighter

up and down her cheek,

the flame

swaying to and fro,

licking her skin

with heat

and pain.

She closed the lighter,

opened it again

to be attacked

by her new lover

who she needed

more than oxygen.

Out of Love

by Christopher Hivner

The voice is muted in her head,

she's turned the volume off.

She watches the veins throb,

middle of his forehead,

spittle flies from

fleshy, feminine lips

and hits her on the neck

like a wet kiss,

the kind her boyfriend

gives her

while slamming her

from behind.

Her father's finger

wags closer and closer

to her nose

and her face tightens,

waiting for the

inevitable smack.

She drifts off

dreaming of doing something nice

for her man.

A vision forms

and she smiles just enough.

That earns her

an openhanded crack

across her jaw.

"What are you smilin' at?"

The remote's been broken,

the volume is back up.

Father's corpulent frame stands erect,

his hands fidgeting around his pants.

She thought for a moment

the belt was coming off.

That could mean any number

of very bad things.

But instead he goes quiet,

"No 14-year-old is going to fool me"

and then he's gone,

getting soft in his dotage

she guesses.

She's not even bleeding.

It's time to go,

boyfriend is waiting.

He'll make it all better.

When he hits her

it's out of love.

Cosmology

by Christopher Hivner

Dad never showed up,

I waited

but he was at home asleep.

There were no more

Saturdays together

after that,

my theory

of who I was

got rewritten that day,

my solar system

was reduced,

my orbit made tighter.

The teacher told my mom

I was a loner

who would never amount to anything.

I thought

I was just a shy kid,

turns out

I was pegged

by the age of 10,

a lonely rock

adrift in space,

not the right size or shape

to be anything in particular.

I took my demotion in stride,

eight years later

graduating with honors.

I’m told Dad was there,

he left

before saying a word to me.

I passed him

in my orbit,

his world

looked dark and void.

My system expanded,

a lover at my side,

a woman to understand,

a mate to build with,

a satellite

in my sky.

Dad died,

the lover cheated,

telescopes searched

for me

but I was hidden

among the gasses,

expelling my outer shell,

diminished to my core,

let me alone,

let me spin,

slowly,

until the red shift.

Continuing my search

to this day,

broke free from others’ gravity

to drift,

the answers

are in the stardust

that forms us,

I run my hand

through the silt

and wonder.

Mouth

by Christopher Hivner

your words don’t deflate me because

I can see them for the worms they are

squirming through holes in your teeth

and the waste they leave behind stays

on your tongue to ferment into larvae

that feed from your saliva, growing

long and thick before spilling out of

your mouth, a dead thing no one trusts

Waiting for the Black

by Christopher Hivner

Hand on the doorknob

waiting for the flames

that don’t just burn

but consume

in black glory,

but the steel

remains cold.

Still, I don’t

open the door,

deciding instead

that the fire

will find me eventually

and I prefer that

to my future.

Smiling Faces

by Christopher Hivner

Smiling faces

look back at me

from the picture

and I know

how I will bloody

each one.

I have a jar

to collect the teeth in,

paraffin wax

to pin the lips, noses and ears to.

I have a skewer

for the eyeballs

but best of all

I have a helium tank

for the faces

to make balloons

for handing out

at the Thanksgiving day parade.

Balloons for the kiddies,

balloons for the kiddies,

to create

more smiling faces.

Aquamarine

by Christopher Hivner

It’s a lure to the depths

but you don’t feel the danger.

Dimples of light sparkling off the waves,

act as flirtatious winks,

kisses from soft lips to the nape of your neck.

The sudden need for more from your new lover

leads you to the water’s edge,

foam lapping at your feet, sucking on your toes.

Farther in you wade,

the warm ocean swallowing your body,

tasting flesh, mixing salts,

bringing you to life with sensual rhythm.

The tingles you feel

must be the work of the ancient sea,

it couldn’t be

the teeth

of a prehistoric beast breaking your skin.

The feeling between your legs

must be a knowing tongue

not a tentacle

from the silty floor reaching inside of you

to extract what it needs to feed.

You are positive of the devotion

of your new lover

until the moment your blood

becomes your bath

and you are greeted by your insides

floating on the surface around you

bobbing in rhythm

with the light-dappled waves.

The Berserker Train

by Christopher Hivner

Jump off the tracks,

here comes the Berserker Train.

Listen to that whistle blow

with the screams

of the dying,

thrill at the sight

of the box cars

decorated with the bodies of the dead,

mouths propped open

in a never-ending

moan of pain.

The whistle blows again

as the train roars down the track

at a speed that smokes the wheels,

the conductor sitting in the engine

dark hood over his face,

his deep, rumbling laugh

rolling into the hillside,

thin white fingers at the controls

while small children

shovel the bones of their parents

into the stove.

At the other end

the caboose teeters

on the edge of derailment

filled with 100 clowns,

tongues torn from infants

braided into their hair,

machetes between their teeth,

they foam at the mouth

waiting for the train to stop

for another meat hunt.

The Berserker Train

is coming to your town

on rails covered in blood.

Listen for the screams

and then run.

They love the chase.

Close Your Eyes

by Christopher Hivner

I have something for you

in the palm of my hand.

It hums, vibrates,

and bites.

This is for you,

a gift,

it’s blue and metallic,

alien-looking,

and it draws blood.

Try it out

it was created especially for you,

cylindrical and smooth,

it revels in the feel of your skin

before opening its jaw.

I hope you like it,

the way it shines

into your eyes,

burning,

so you can’t see

when it expands

its belly

to consume you.

I have something for you

and it’s hungry.

Say My Name

by Christopher Hivner

The stars shine in unison

when you speak.

Bells around the world

peal in delicate balance

as the words form on your tongue.

A mellifluous breeze

blows along the shoreline

when you say my name

so bite down

and say it.

I need to hear the word

to wake up,

I know you put me down,

the dirt I’m buried in

has your smell.

Open your mouth and say my name.

I gave the flattery you desire,

twisting my tongue

in flower petal words

to send you lightning,

my pride is deep in the earth

while my anger rises,

say my name.

You don’t need me,

say it.

You don’t want me,

say it.

I want out,

say the name,

say my name

with your lying mouth.

When the Sun Turns to Sorcery

by Christopher Hivner

A good opening

lays bare the ending

at least with stories

of lust and greed,

but what of wandering players

who don’t know

up from sideways,

who leak into the night

one cell at a time

so they can’t be seen?

Their stories

are nebulas

moving from night to day,

from standstills to searching,

part of society in the march of hours,

lost in the ether

when the Sun turns to sorcery.

The stars rotate

behind them,

the air bites,

in a bloodless affirmation

of the under being crowned

as king of velvet riches,

an empty prize,

smile and wave

to your sleeping subjects,

The opening begins

with the promise of a tale

for the saints,

until the ending

shows the truth of the night;

it is us,

minus the Sun

and its puffery,

searching for meaning

among the diamonds.

Christopher Hivner writes from a small town in Pennsylvania surrounded by books and the echoes of music. He has recently been published in Grievous Angel, Blood Moon Rising and Weird Reader. A collection of short stories, The Spaces Between Your Screams, was published by eTreasures Publishing. website: www.chrishivner.com, Facebook: Christopher Hivner - Author, Twitter: @Your_screams