Poetry: Selections from Damien Posterino
Maybe we’ll never
dance like that again-
a second chance to
melt a miracle
in our mouths. Wear red top hats,
bare naked chests, or jumplong lines that led straight to heaven. Hugs were tight because
we understood everything.
Snogging strangers as your hand
gripped a flyer for next weekend. Gold coins for the homeless
because you wanted them happy too.
6am salt beef bagels, wide-eyed,mustard burning our nostrils.
Calls to some guy Gabbywho was always awake –
is he still alive? After-party dress-ups,
we never wanted to grow up.
It wasn’t supposed to end.
You promised me that night as
the crowd slipped away.
Squeezed my clammy hand-
whispered through my brain
nothing would change.
You all got serious-
had kids, went to hide
in suburbs and countryside.
Calls have stopped but
my ears still ring. Walls creep closer,
bright lights have dimmed. I can’t remember
how to laugh again. Golden days
get dark in the end.
Beanstalks for fools
You were the last person
to give me goosebumps-
they are meant to warn off predators.
Little bristles electrocuted by
your smile, satellites stand to
steely attention, warning
the world while
puppy dog eyes submit.
You hand out promises
like bags of hard candy-
sugar rushes speeding
down blood’s highway.
Give me a transfusion
before that crash hits me again.
Desires in disguise
keeps a fool wanting more,
is there a vaccine for this?
I’ve always been interested in fairy tales,
stories more bent than you.
Give me magic coloured beans
to plant in quicksand.
I will strangle myself
on those vines that grow,
climbing through clouds to nowhere.
Take a ride on a suburban slide
At night I hold a pillow
in my arms
that doesn’t dance
or dream. Voices
used to scream to remind
me of my place-
hidden away under this duvet.
Houses shift foundations-
plays its out of tune melody.
Old lonely men sing
similar songs, drowning in
moans and melancholy.
Lyrics tainted with whisky,
choruses of bile.
Neighbours laugh at
TV game shows.
Doorbells ring- suited
young men selling God.
Doors slam, dogs howl
for their masters.
Porno mags hide
in lofts under moth-eaten
wedding suits. Family
albums spit dust. Tattered
life jackets from the boat
that sank on a fishing trip,
he deserted your mother.
I close my eyes and remember
summer as a boy.
That smell of freshly cut grass.
Lying on my back,
listening to choirs of
screaming to suburbia.
They were saying something.
Towns here follow false prophesies.
Crowds of zombies walk in circles,
stapled to their tongues.
Houses lean together in desperation,
skinny chimneys have surrendered.
Mothers walk with hunched backs,
heads hung low, caught
in a permanent undertow.
Long lines wait for
poured onto the streets.
Whispers from the front of the queue
passed down to the meek- potatoes,
milk powder or nothing this week.
Children lie in cemeteries & wait,
too hungry to play.
Attack dogs with attitude walk freely,
owners in collars and chains.
Empty promises linger like cancer,
bloated men and women
wipe away tears of joy.
County air smells of sulphur-
they soak in golden tubs & bubbles,
tutting at all the bad news in the papers.
Waves land on the sand with the brave,
war soiled & unwelcome.
Churches, cold & empty.
Pray to venture capital
The final story
The deed is done, nothing more to say.
Insects tip toe outside under darkness.
Someone screams to break the silence.
Neighbours’ heads kept down,
the deed is done.
The deed is done, inhale stale sticky air.
Dances of despair, she feels giddy.
Blank stares on a stick man’s face.
Hard memories rattle past,
the deed is done
The deed is done, a sleeping giant
awake from dreams to cold reality.
Frostbite devours another heart.
Lock the door behind for good,
the deed is done.
Damien Posterino (he/him) is a Melbourne-born, London-based poet who recently spent 18 months writing in Mexico. He explores characters, conversations, and captured moments in time. His work can be seen in over 30 different publications including A Thin Slice of Anxiety, Roi Fainéant Press, and The Madrigal. Follow him on Twitter