The Seven Deathly Sins / Ira
By SJ Fowler
An armed figure of anger emerges with sword drawn with an army swarming around her, from a tent into a landscape filled with violent scenes, including human figures roasting over a fire & naked figures being cut down with a large knife; at the feet of anger, her attendant bear biting the leg of a hapless naked victim; above her a gigantic figure with a knife in her mouth balances a carafe in her left hand; a great fire consumes a fantastical structure at right middleground. A fearsome man is spilled from fire, thick all over, his is a heavy bearded turn of bees, a beehive lopped grin with chisel teeth & a knife, blunted on red attendants who flock to pin him down & syringe a speck of brain to return him to the line. The horizon has a stroke, or something, a mental incident that has come from the body of men malfunctioning the skyline as it gets on with boiling, twitching, looking like a baby grown massive. The pavements are upset and never laugh, a warning to the water to stop touching a sarcophagus, while boy keeps touching, insects give notice. The boy cheeks with caresses to the lid of stone so the blackfruit grabs his wrist in a heavy meat hook (& how the boy realises amongst that grip; the opposite of anger, the precursor - he has made a mistake) With redstrain and veins closing Frankness forces the boys fingers in-between the crack of the lid & box, the thing being solid stones weighs tonnes. Darkness whispers to the child, right close to his face, with his devouring, grinning snarl that he is going to lift the lid and slam it shut smashing all of his fingers to juice. The kid, barely a lambshrift in size, begins to wail & cry & fuddle in pure terror of the gorilla majesty of rage & horror matches it, wailing too, straight into the child’s face, in the middle of the red, in front of hundreds of hungry moths, above us like iron gods, roaring, spit flecking into the little boys eyes and mouth. Of course Anger cannot lift the earth with one hand fixed on keeping the boy still, but with two?
- - -
SJ Fowler (1983) has had poetry published in over 70 journals & magazines, and is the author of two collections, Fights (Veer books 2011) and Red Museum (Knives Forks & Spoons press 2011). He is a member of the Writers forum poetry group, and an employee of the British Museum. He edits the Maintenant interview series for 3am magazine introducing contemporary European poets. www.sjfowlerpoetry.com www.maintenant.co.uk
By SJ Fowler
An armed figure of anger emerges with sword drawn with an army swarming around her, from a tent into a landscape filled with violent scenes, including human figures roasting over a fire & naked figures being cut down with a large knife; at the feet of anger, her attendant bear biting the leg of a hapless naked victim; above her a gigantic figure with a knife in her mouth balances a carafe in her left hand; a great fire consumes a fantastical structure at right middleground. A fearsome man is spilled from fire, thick all over, his is a heavy bearded turn of bees, a beehive lopped grin with chisel teeth & a knife, blunted on red attendants who flock to pin him down & syringe a speck of brain to return him to the line. The horizon has a stroke, or something, a mental incident that has come from the body of men malfunctioning the skyline as it gets on with boiling, twitching, looking like a baby grown massive. The pavements are upset and never laugh, a warning to the water to stop touching a sarcophagus, while boy keeps touching, insects give notice. The boy cheeks with caresses to the lid of stone so the blackfruit grabs his wrist in a heavy meat hook (& how the boy realises amongst that grip; the opposite of anger, the precursor - he has made a mistake) With redstrain and veins closing Frankness forces the boys fingers in-between the crack of the lid & box, the thing being solid stones weighs tonnes. Darkness whispers to the child, right close to his face, with his devouring, grinning snarl that he is going to lift the lid and slam it shut smashing all of his fingers to juice. The kid, barely a lambshrift in size, begins to wail & cry & fuddle in pure terror of the gorilla majesty of rage & horror matches it, wailing too, straight into the child’s face, in the middle of the red, in front of hundreds of hungry moths, above us like iron gods, roaring, spit flecking into the little boys eyes and mouth. Of course Anger cannot lift the earth with one hand fixed on keeping the boy still, but with two?
- - -
SJ Fowler (1983) has had poetry published in over 70 journals & magazines, and is the author of two collections, Fights (Veer books 2011) and Red Museum (Knives Forks & Spoons press 2011). He is a member of the Writers forum poetry group, and an employee of the British Museum. He edits the Maintenant interview series for 3am magazine introducing contemporary European poets. www.sjfowlerpoetry.com www.maintenant.co.uk
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