Martin Jack


Any tongue needs a saviour.

You can’t escape the flash

even that shatters the architecture

of words, sculpts a savage city

flaking in the morning

aftermath of an incendiary device.

Gargoyles speak of it

in their masques.  Words scratched

bloodily by an angry couple add

to their number, a hostile takeover

of spree killings immortalised

in stone that breeds new possession

an outbreak of sleep walkers

on the wrong side of the bed.

Soon you hear the pitter

patter of tiny daggers, unsheathed

as we stab with amplified thought

waves that leave a pinprick

on our souls brushed

with the ferocity of locust wings;

flying with the biting swarm

until famine intrudes into our face-

to-face coffee breaks where just

the espresso tastes warm and filling

and conversation is sandpaper friction

bantered till it hurts.

Martin Jack © 2012

Dear Mr. Demille

Mr. Demille my happy font

is cracking.  I can’t feign makeup

of brightest use for your reel

to reel.  I might wear red

but arctic night lurks hungrily

underneath supressed in the bunker

of my frost bitten mind.

Do you dare to play auteur

with thoughts that croak crawl?

Can you tame them with the whip

of a clapper board scripting chaos

into a starring role where even

depression gets the girl, wooing

her with scissors and knives.

Mister, there will not be a sequel.

I’ll go undercover on release

no electronic capture but a fog

exchanged for my costume melted

into the cutting room floor.

While I live on as gas embers

one step ahead of the studio system

that would smother its audience

with your razzle dazzle

of my swimming with sharks,

suicides pretending a smile.

Martin Jack © 2012