Benjamin Smith
Kelpie Sighting in West Yorkshire, 2013
1.
The Kelpie visited, forecast disaster;
planted a seahorse in every photograph
that now lays discarded
throughout this submerged labyrinth.
2.
The moon is a sliver of nickel
glinting on the surface
of the lake that's swallowing the living room.
The walls are secreting waterfalls.
Deep in the dank, carpet-moss thicket
mercury centipedes
scuttle with the silverfish
as mould blots blossom on clothing
like grey-green anemones.
There is mildew in the pantry
jewellery drowning in slurry in the
en-suite bedroom, the bathroom
is a pond scum swamp-land.
She has left us living in ruins stained
the colour of olives; dingy green-black.
Lingering odour of sewage
in the kitchen. The hallways are mud squelched.
The library's alive with fungus.
This whole house is wrung out
like a dead, drowned cat.
Chupacabra Sighting.
I saw the devil bird, last week,
vampiring livestock in
next door's garden.
It trespassed the chicken coup,
drained the inhabitants and
discarded the carcasses
like burnt out embers;
rag-doll trophies of it's
raging savageness.
It's face was a sucker-hole
stuffed full of fangs.
It's skin was scuffed up like
a worn leather jacket.
It stalked forth on hind legs
easy prey the goat's pen
its eyes fire red in the pitch.
Then came the crash of
next door's shotgun
and the creature shrieked the full
moon before scurrying off
back into the darkness.
Séance.
I got home late.
The electrics were out.
I live alone.
The living room was caked
in muddy footprints,
the chairs were facing
inwards in a circle,
candlesticks were placed on
the mantelpiece and shelves.
As I fled to the staircase
I felt the drag
of tight packed bodies
pulling me back with
groping hands, but
the living room was empty.
I blacked out.
I woke up to chanting
panting from mouths that
glimmered in the gloaming;
they kept repeating my name
over and over
like some kind of mantra
and stamping their feet like
indigenous drums as
their faces filled in in the darkness.
I faded
as they filled,
like a memory.
Black Magic.
The night hours are mine
Hunched up reading post-art witch literature
The night hours with wine
Red and white, like brake lights,
And blue slick smoke
Sliding from cigarettes
In cellar damp language, I get lost
I get open to ideas such as dreaming