Tag: prey

Perhaps All Thats Pretty isn’t Pure

~ Bourbon, cigarettes and syllables ~ 5 Comments

Tyler R. Martin

Seeds that which from heaven fell
Have all now grown tall and
Blossomed red like flames of hell,

Blue buds blossom in hot red cinders,
Expand to meter wide maws
Of spiraling fangs and thorny fingers!-

They yawn, savage snarls to the heavens.
Thick stems grow miles high and
Ooze sweet smelling sludge which beckons!-

Prey as they approach in a tentative fashion,
Fragrant pheromones, chromatic colors
Feign the mercy of a nurturant mothers passion

And thorns, dark razor predator’s talons,
These dagger’s dense honed edges
Like savage claws of gallant onix dragons!-

Are hidden from view in a pretense of virtue,
Shielding prey in secure arching maws
As stems assume a guise of a sentinel statue!

Then, in their horrid hunger, their friendly facade fades,
Terrible thorns collapse in a crushing embrace
And their prey is shredded! By onix blades they’re flayed!

A trusting beast has perished by maddend masses
Of the fierce and gluttonous flora
Consuming those creatures so pathologically passive!-

For miles and miles these maws traverse,
Smothering landscapes in death,
Petals wilt as a poisonous pollen disperse.

The Cardinal in my Yard

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Tyler R. Martin

The cardinal in my yard won’t sing
He just stares.
He stares blankly at nothing while I stare
Blankly at him.
It’s cold in January in New York
And my grandfather’s grapevine
On which he sits is bare and branches
Shiver in the breeze.
Nothing moves in my backyard today
Aside from an infrequent neck twitch when
The cardinal hears something.
He stays very still but the bright red is
Nothing but a beacon in the dull brown
of the grape vine.
Good for getting laid, I suppose,
But a bad target nevertheless.
He puffs his feathers in the cold
And I watch him and
I think we’re both wondering the same thing,
That is:
When the predator finally comes down on you
Is that day worse than any other?
Simultaneously sicked by this thought
The cardinal flew away and I put my
Boots on to go to work.

Another Dead Bird

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Tyler R. Martin

My dog, with a dead bird in his mouth, was waiting for me

This morning on the stoop of my home’s back door.

I stood in the doorway, waiting to let him in, hung over, 

Bleary eyed, still naked at six AM, drowsy and half asleep, 

Desperately wanting him in the house so I could grab 

Another hour of sleep without fear of him pissing on my floor.

And there he was, staring up at me, ears up, tail wagging,

Dead bird in his mouth and big blue eyes popping from

Their sockets with excitement. “Put it down!” I told him,

“Fuck you,” his eyes responded, I looked down at him,

Dead bird in his mouth, gray sloberry feathers hanging from

His jowls, tail wagging very rapidly. “My bird,” his eyes said.

Fuck it, I lit a cigarette and let him and his dead bird inside,

Head high, tail wagging, he trotted into the house, almost skipping

Towards my bedroom to show his prize to the hungover blonde 

Still comatose in my bed. I sat at my kitchen table smoking,

Head back against the back of the chair blowing plumes of smoke 

Into the stagnant air and waited for the inevitable screams.