Brenton Booth

The Iron Claw

by Brenton Booth

underneath it all is

a desperate scream

a powerless hercules

a bird that no longer sings

underneath it all is

a tear that formed an ocean

a worn pair of shoes

a heart frozen as ice

underneath it all is

a lonely old man crying

an ugly girl getting fucked

with a porno over her face

a dead dog on the side of

the road

underneath it all is

technology more important

than everything

money the universal language

personal comfort bypassing any

and all conscious

you

him

everybody

clouds that no longer rain as they

should

animals fat, stupid and dying

roads that lead nowhere

whole lives with nothing left.

FLEEING FROM THE AVALANCHE

by Brenton Booth

Some days the stone

gods have broken

fan can’t push past

the dust on the grill

dogs prefer to bark

at dwarves on mars

walls melt like

ice blocks poisoning

the ground with

artificial flavor

the mermaids walk

freely without tails

guitar strings break

before hitting the

right note

sparrows chew cats

with no special effort

blood crashes like angry

Hawaiian waves

the words always keep

finding reasons not

to come:

somedays

the eyes cut like razors

somedays

it’s best to go back to sleep.

HELL AT 7A.M.

by Brenton Booth

There’s nothing quite

the loneliness

of 7A.M.

Sunday morning

walking back

to your apartment

from a bar

alone and unwanted

the pills and drinks

moving aside

like biblical seas

and the skies opening

with an aria of hopelessness

hailing down

without mercy;

the ones who experience this

often fight the great fights

some lose their minds

others fly to broke Asian countries

to buy a companion

a few even create virtuosic sonatas

and building—

grand pictures

far more beautiful than the

most beautiful sky—

and some even write a poem about it:

hoping to survive.

INSIDIOUS

by Brenton Booth

under the scream is

the tear

the wound

the true face of evil

under the scream is

the battle

the loss

the cowering posture

of submission

under the scream is

the hypocrisy

the discrimination

the unnecessary rejection

under the scream is

all those asshole faces

the cowardly violence

of mismatch

the endless whisper that

knows no mercy

under the scream is

heaven

hell

and all the other lies we

have ever been told

under the scream is

the broken heart

the reflection of

disappointment

the feet that no longer

work

under the scream is

the homes

the supermarkets

and jobs that we mistake

for sustenance

under the scream is

the shoelace

the shower

the stomach that is

never full

under the scream is

birth

youth

and everything else that

won’t go away

under the scream is

the rolling dice

the empty cup

the clock that never

stops ticking.

THE FIGHT

by Brenton Booth

Alone in my

apartment

on a Tuesday

afternoon

in Sydney

the fists of

life pounding

against my

head

not sure of

anything

it is winter

outside

and inside:

is this it?

will there

be something

more?

alone on

a Tuesday

afternoon:

wondering if

the effort

is really

worth it. . . .

FRIDAY

by Brenton Booth

Hung over at 9am

watching the spiders

parachute from Mars

the bottle empty

and friends nowhere

to be seen

is this all there

is?

37 and still putting

words down that

only a few will

ever see

Diogenes got it

right

he never tried

and never failed

the dogs barking

and sun burning

the walls

what is needed

now is a great

film director to

give it all some

sense

or even a bad one

would do

I don’t understand

and probably never

will

laying in bed now

hoping for sleep

and a new day.

THE DREAM

by Brenton Booth

Most of us spend

our whole lives

waiting for what’s

right to happen;

we spend decades

enduring

education,

religions,

jobs,

relationships,

neighbors,

marriages,

inflation,

mortgages,

taxes,

land rates,

water bills,

electricity bills,

phone bills,

overpriced petrol,

parking tickets,

bad books and movies,

not enough holidays,

too many hangovers,

and far too little sex:

all with the hope—

that death

isn’t the final

act.

Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Over the past few years he has been published in over 150 journals and nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry collection, Punching the Teeth From the Sky, is available from Epic Rites Press. <brentonbooth.weebly.com>