Poetry Showcase from Scott Cumming

photo from unsplash.com

In the Silence  
In the silence
before a ball is kicked 
you think of them 
hunkered in foxholes 
huddled in trenches 
to preserve the privilege 
to call the ref a cunt
  
In the silence 
you wonder about equivalent rainbows 
shining over battlegrounds 
all their final sounds unheard 
underneath torrential downpours 
of ordnance 
Blood payment in order for us to bey 
  
In the silence 
think about what we don’t know 
about dressing rooms and war rooms 
Well laid plans and movements 
don't always come to fruition 
Big difference between verbal volleys 
and literal firing squads 
The cost of three points 
and three million men 
  
In the silence 
Before the game 
you feel the hurt and sadness 
thinking on those 
who never got to be 
overgrown boys 
who never got to lose themselves 
exuding frivolous noise. 

Feelings Dislocated...

...no simple joint 
to lodge them back in place 
The tear on my cheek 
A bittersweet release 
 
The closest I’ve felt to myself in months 
is when I wanted to run off into the night 
 
I see them do as I do 
and not what I say 
Peeling at layers 
Truth or dare 
Name everyone you’ve ever loved 
 
You had me at “fine” 
Arched eyebrow screamed 
You meant it this time. 

Boosted

The dilapidated department store 
Now a vaccination centre 
Fittings and fixtures remain 
You can sort your hair 
in the left behind mirror 
before going back to staring 
at everyone's shoes 
trudging furtively 
as though in a leper colony 
 
The signage covered up 
with children's art 
forced so young 
to understand a health service's worth 
A Marine administers my latest shot 
caught fighting another war 
framed by disinformation 
 
The hollowed-out haberdashery 
now used for recovery 
Another ten minutes 
to doom scroll 
the next supposed 
end of the world. 


We Feast No More

We keep warm 
over the fires 
from leftover hearts 
Quench our thirst 
under a spigot 
of wasted tears 
In this future 
hope, an illusion 
consumers until consumed 
now foraging blindly 
Picking through lint 
and speckled sand 
for mere morsels 
Our souls, ghosts 
of people 
from generations before 
Once fatted calves 
grown gluttonous 
to the point 
we feast no more 
The shadow of the beast 
still reigns supreme 
but like us 
scratches for remains 
Battered and weathered 
we bludgeon one another 
for a derisory taste 
pondering if 
we're the universe's anomaly 
The only dumbass 
intelligent life forms 
arguing our way 
through the cosmos. 


Bio: Scott Cumming unsuspectingly went to see Garden State wearing his Shins tee. He has been published at The Daily Drunk, Punk Noir Magazine, Versification, Mystery Tribune and Shotgun Honey. His poem, “Blood on Snow”, was voted the best of Outcast Press Poetry Things We Carry issue and nominated for a Pushcart. His collection, A Chapbook About Nothing, was released in December as part of Close to the Bone's First Cut series.
Twitter: @tummidge Website: https://scottcummingwriter.wordpress.com/



By davidlonan1

David writes poetry, short stories, and writings that'll make you think or laugh, provoking you to examine images in your mind. To submit poetry, photography, art, please send to feversofthemind@gmail.com. Twitter: @davidLOnan1 + @feversof Facebook: DavidLONan1

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