Poetry: Selections from Tim Frank

The Origins of Therapy

 

My student lies

Face down 

In a back-street muddy puddle,

Like a KO’d lightweight boxer

Under muted skies.

“C’mon,” she nods, “recline with me and focus.

Let’s forget about the world,

Then discover it anew.”

“How is this supposed to help?” I ask,

Pointing to the condoms

And the pink-blushed tampons

Swirling in the gutter.

“Can’t I lie down there, on the lacerated sofa by the rat-infested bins?”

“Hellfire!” my student cries.

“You know nothing 

About the mind,

Do you, Dr Freud?

Think, man. Think.

Find your inner reptile,

And release it from the gloom.”

I can’t find my inner reptile,

I think he might be dead.

But I do have this scruffy toddler 

Wrestling with his brothers 

Chasing men in drag

Who look exactly like my father.

Then I’m swamped by a dream

Of rabbits copulating 

By an antiquated river 

Streaming through my office.

So, I sink

To my knees 

Chant a Buddhist koan

And take a swig of water 

Laced with neat cocaine.

And now,

It all becomes clear:

O capricious mother,

You’re a whore of Babylon!

 

 

 

Cleansed

 

I had to heal my friends 

With modern hands of horror.

Their youthful texts 

Spilled like high grade sewage 

pooling around my feet.

Their brains splashed 

On the carpet 

Were joyous septic rot with Gucci shades

And short skirts paired with black lips

Sucking cock in the sun.

I cleansed my friends 

And I cleansed my phone—

The germs put to sleep 

Like restless vermin.

But then the empty screen 

Begged for more—

A discharge 

Of revolution 

And slavery,

In the modern age.

 

 

 

Hyperventilating

 

There are gameshows 

on six different channels.

I stack six TV screens

like glitter balls 

from cracked dance floor war zones.

They sit in a bathtub 

filled with TV guides

highlighted

by bloody fingertips.

I rev my lungs into

wrecked applause,

I see it all 

I see it all 

because the white teeth 

gameshow paradise 

flows with wine

and gasoline on fire.

I can’t wait for the ads 

to blast away 

the bruises 

glowing like nuclear waste.

Finally, I can breathe.

 

 

Mobile Phone

 

I can’t live without my phone 

And the drip-drip-dripping of dopamine hits.

How else could I plan

Nights out with hunchback alcoholics,

And their thick Chelsea boots 

Caked with sticky blood 

From last night’s merry onslaught.

Their skulls shaped like car tires

Give Glasgow kisses and sweat drools

At sunrise with pearly droplets.

And how else could I plot 

The mass execution

Of agony aunts and salesmen 

In abandoned suburbia?

Feel free to add me on Facebook.

 

 

 

 

 

Tim Frank’s work has been published in Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Metaworker and elsewhere. He has also been nominated for Best Small Fictions. His debut chapbook is, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24) and his sophomore effort is, Delusions to Live By (Alien Buddha Press ’25). Twitter: @TimFrankquill