by Tim Frank
Anaesthetised
Every day,
I’m pinned to the couch
With long drooling sighs,
And dead-eye rainbow visions,
Teeming
Like bed bugs on my pillow
Every night,
I struggle in the bath
With my mirror image.
I wrestle with my teeth
And watch my gums recede
Like ancient coastal bluffs
In sweeping panoramas.
If I could just hibernate
Through the vacant summer nights,
Then I’d plug into the sky
Beneath a low harvest moon
And wait for a storm
To cleanse my withered skin.
Flower Seller
The flower seller grows
In the shade of darkest times
When muted crowds emerge.
She creeps around with ease
Playing with her tears,
She’s a fiend beneath a shawl
With business on her mind.
Her flowers are like ghosts—
A captivating force,
Reeking of decay.
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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 been nominated for Best Small Fictions and 3x Best of the Net. His debut chapbook is, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24) His sophomore effort is, Delusions to Live By (Alien Buddha Press ’25)
Twitter: @TimFrankquill