The mausoleum is full of broken brooches,
rusted pins, and enlightened bulbs –
quiet mischief hums the tune
of saints marching in.
A child withers away in the corner,
wrinkled with crow’s feet pressed
into the sides of fresh eyes.
They say the fairies
play pranks with hourglasses.
How will you attempt
to turn the sands
back once more?
In foreign languages, spoken to domestic
ears we hear dreams repeated
for eternity. In sleep age
knows only daybreak.
– Aaron Kent
I’ll tell you how, but first, hear that? The guard’s asleep.
He’s churring like a pylon, and that sparkling laugh?
I’d say that that’s the keys he gathers at his hip.
I wonder if the murmuring’s what did the trick,
what wormed beneath the door and switched the searchlights off.
Though yours and mine alone would never be enough,
there’s all these cells around us, always filling up
with what I like to call that sweet electric tick.
The double sense of ‘boring’ comes to mind. The erk
of undercover stitching or the whirr of surf.
But I’m just mouthing rumours. Here’s our sleepy prince.
The question now is how to reach those sliver-flints
that sit there at his belt, beyond our fingertips –
how to hook them, slip them in and make them speak.
– Jon Stone