It’s inherent, a ritual passed through ages, fashions change but the outcomes the same. We make ourselves desirable, attractive. We plump out our manes and puff our collars, rouge our cheeks and lips, blood pumping to all our organs. It’s our tribal wear. We soak up sweet alcoholic nectar, loosening our inhibitions and bringing out our inner basic urges.
We hit a club called the watering hole, gorillas on the door filtering out the runts. My paws stick to the floor and the walls drip with sweat. The disco lights burn down on me with a heat like the desert. You can’t move without making eye contact with someone. Single men lean against the walls, and lurk in the shallows like alligators. Waiting for a young philly to wonder past a little worse for wear. Snap. Men dance with their tops off, sweat making their skin glisten like a serpent. The first thing you have to do is get to the bar, its packed and the bodies push against you as all trying to get to the front. The first few drinks numb you and make you confident, you begin to be seduced by the music and dance floor. The air is humid and the smell of smoke has faded away, just leaving the smell of body odour coming from the hippo taking up most of the dance floor. The main smell overpowering all this is sex, pure unfiltered sex, the place reeks of it. This place is a meat market, but there’s all kinds of animal on show. You’ve got your flamingos who stand there beautiful, looked at but not touch, you’ve also got your warthogs content rolling in their filth, you’ve got your grizzly bears sniffing out the honey. Me I’m a hyena, (laugh) a pack animal, we hunt in small groups, dotted around the stage, causing mischief among the herd, we’re jokers, entertainers, it might all look like a laugh but cross one of us and feel our bite which is certainly worse than our bark.
There’s one though, he’s a lion, king of the beasts, everything else is just meat, he locks onto his target, he stealthy crosses the dance floor to prey on it, there’s plenty of meat around but that’s the one he wants, it’s a game, we lock eyes, I can’t move, it’s survival of the species, and he’s top of the food chain. Once he has me he takes his fill and leaves me to the vultures.
I lick my wounds to start again. And then I realise the hunter has become the hunted.
Each person has within a hill,
And on it is sometimes a snake,
Sometimes a rabbit lying still,
Sometimes vigilant as daybreak
A lion waiting for its fill.
Each has hyena, vulture's eyes,
And brushstrokes of blazing butterflies,
And spider waiting for its prize.
Each has the rose's delicacy,
The ocean's ferocious energy,
What's beyond sky, and still beyond,
And tadpoles wriggling in the pond.
Some would call us the fruit of sin.
Some would say he's boring, the other not,
That one's dull, the other possessed of clever thought,
That one's mean, stingy, the other kind,
Or one's crude, coarse, the other refined.
Yes, we are these, and infinitely more.
If I see in another but a snake,
Or feel that he is far from heaven's door,
Only one quality is shown,
Or I see the dominant one,
His snake because it's also my own.
Peaceful trees, covered in swarming bees
Dot the coast of a rugged land.
Every spot on a leopard's coat
Gets reflected in the words I wrote.
Padded paws pleasantlfy plod
Through the countryside.
Bounding through beaches of yellow sand,
Blaring trumpets from every band.
Herds of elephants marching across my page
Of journal entries lost in grasses so high.
Frightened by yips of hyena sentries
Guarding the thoughts poured n m this ink.
Tickling birds crowding the sky
Singing so loud, barely able to fly.
Crocodiles sink back into drying mud,
Swimming towards the forsaken, stuck in crud
Of filler words
Cramming into my mind.
A rugged land filled
With creatures of every kind.
Lost among the peaceful trees,
Drowned in the sound of buzzing bees.
mass of zebra
to the ground
powerful jaws of lion
in the gruesome kill
throat of prey
oozing scarlet gash
a bloating portion
deference shown to lion
an uninvited hyena
snarls and snappy retorts
go between the two
at nature's table
in the zebra's
and its sweet
above in stark
glared filled skies
descending in unison
blanketing the zebra's carcass
the meager scraps
from the bones
all too sparse table
each creature know its place
crow has a place reserved
scavenger on the rim
And our brother, too, the metal shaman
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
We chant, guttural grunts, primal urges
And fierce grinding teeth clenching and screeching
The shaman dances and
Reaches up, plucks knowledge from the stars
And we SCREAM shrill
Bare our necks and bring the knife across, kill
A sacrifice to the metal beast
The shaman stares straight up,
Plucks knowledge from the stars
And the blood leaves us
Hair turns grey
Daily exploits lost in deepening wrinkles
The macabre ritual culminates...
The Shaman, unappeased
Laughs like Hyena, cackling
REACHES UP AND PLUCKS KNOWLEDGE FROM THE STARS!
The existential cacophony diminishes
Beast is empty
Bits flow like blood
Ones and zeros in a jumbled pool
The shaman delivers
The family sits around the glowing box
A tribe in an ancient ritual
Flip the switch, change the channel
The children plucking out their eyes
Little blind Oedipus
Smashing faces through the tube
To the life on the other side
Celebrities, products, and reality shows
Present your mind
To the beast
A cinematic orgy
Send Damsels to appease the Minotaur
Change the channel
When Aunt Fern came to visit,
She would make her famous tea.
And one by one, we'd have to drink it,
Karen, Albert, Anne and me.
How her eyes would shine, and more,
When she came walking in that door.
And then she'd rattle on about
Uncle Feezle's touch of gout.
Oh, Aunt Fern would be so giddy,
Like a school girl at play.
Percolating her concoction
Before we all escaped away.
How we eyed that kitchen window,
Where the sun shined oh so bright,
And would have loved to watch the squirrels
Chase the robins into flight.
But Aunt Fern watched us with wary eyes
The size of giant pizza pies,
Through glasses thick as an alder tree,
She'd look at them, she'd look at me,
And smile in that Aunt Fern way,
Then, like the hyena out at play
She'd cackle as she mixed her spices,
And chopped her ginger into slices.
Aunt Fern's tea would have this chill,
And a most uncherry scent,
That followed all too closely
Wherever Aunt Fern went.
And how she'd move, from there to here,
Then right back there again.
Chopping, dicing, shredding, flaking,
As though she were but candle making.
When Aunt Fern handed us our teacups,
The scent of her strange brew
Smelled almost like an eyeball
Roasting in a cabbage stew.
I'm sure she tried to fix it right,
But I, for one, could see
Little creatures floating in it,
All fighting to get free.
I would have let it all lay waste,
This concoction oozing goo,
For Karen, Albert, Anne and I
Did not know what to do.
We tried to add some sugar
To sweeten up the tea,
And perhaps a spot of honey
From an Ever-Better Bee.
But Aunt Fern was watching carefully
And every thing that she could see
She tallied in her memory
Of Karen, Albert, Anne and me.
The tea had so many colors,
And just as many hues.
A dozen shades of poisonwood
And the scent of rotting shoes.
And when Aunt Fern's tea went tweeky,
And turned three shades of green,
She simply smiled innocent,
As if she had not seen.
Karen, she made a wratchet face
Upon her second sip.
And Albert bravely held his ground
When he took a tiny nip.
Anne, she only stirred and stirred
And stirred her teacup well.
She could not seem to ever get
Beyond its wretched smell.
And I watched the cauldron of my cup
Swirl ever 'round about.
But when Aunt Fern had looked away
I poured the whole thing out.
Copyright © 2012 Richard D. Remler
"Each cup of tea represents an
Tasmanian Tiger, Tasmanian Wolf,
A crepuscular hunting nocturnal beast,
Carnivore by nature, feasted upon wallaby,wombats and roos,
Caught by female of the species,
Was he a feline or a lupine beast, hyena perhaps,
No, this strange creature now probably extinct was marsupial with pouch,
Female with pouch to grow her young, male had pouch of his own,
Protected his crown jewels within a scrotal pouch,
Appearance of a stripy dog,
Looked rather like a tiger,
Had amber eyes filled with fire,
This diamorphic beast, (Means the chap was larger)
Had four toes on hind feet and rigid tail of kangaroo,
It's gait was rather odd,
Could move like kangaroo, if it so desired,
Strange call, a guttural sound, alerted his family when he was abound,
Shy secretive little creature,
Kept himself locked out of sight,
For in the late 188os, early 1900s these creatures had a bounty on their heads,
The bounty hunters had such fun, left our world with nearly none,
Last beast in the wild as noted,shot by gun by Mr Batty,
1936 the last captive creature died in Hobart Zoo,
Reported name was Benjamin,
Book called The Djin-jum Man, said man, Batty man maybe, was cursed for killing the last of their kin,
Living legacy remains,
On Tasmania's coat of arms, two of these fine beasts support the islands emblem,
Probably gone but never overlooked,
Still being sought but never found!
© 2013 ladylivvi1 (All rights reserved)
This was really difficult, hope its quite accurate!
My sister pulled my into her bedroom with a hyena laugh
She sat me down and I felt someone’s arms around me
It was Tim Robbins. A kind soul with the initials of my enemy
He was gently manipulating. Telling me to pull the trigger and get it over with
His words were soothing but could have easily been scripted
Where am I? Who is this man?
I tore off his face and saw a face like in Mulholland Drive-
A face you don’t ever want to see again but a face you can’t remember all the same
Where am I? Who am I? What have I done?
Last thoughts: Pull the trigger. Wield the knife. Pull the trigger.
MR DUCKS DISAPPEARING ACT
Out he shot like a screaming hyena, Mr Pig’s wig to the side
His trotters were performing a jig, he wasn’t quite sure.
Usually he leaves the house so full of respect and pride
And was particular about anything he touched or indeed wore.
“The Duck’s gone” he yelled to nobody that was about
“My friend has up and left me” sobbing out for all he was worth
“Does nobody care, can anyone hear me if I shout”.
“Talk to me, it doesn’t cost the Earth”
By now Mr Pig had got his bloomers in a twist
Started searching all the cupboards he could find.
Seeking out the little places he had inadvertently missed.
Looking in all the secret hideouts Mr Duck would hide.
Mr Pig sat in a corner and waited for the duck to come back.
He waited a couple of days and he was wondering whether he was dead.
He something outside, he thought it was a quack.
In slid a skinny leg and a webbed foot as brown as wholemeal bread.
In slid a suitcase with stickers “I was here” on from a seaside resort.
In came an enormous stuffed donkey toy with “Made in Spain” on it.
The little devil has been abroad without me, he thought
He has got the nerve I have to admit.
He was getting crosser and crosser by the minute
He was a nice shade of violet and blue.
The blood in his veins putting pressure on his three piece suit
In fact he was getting himself wound up and in a stew.
“Where exactly do you think you have been” enquired the blue blob
“Oh I have been to Majorca for the week, told you when I booked”.
By now he’d heard enough and his head had started to throb.
Mr Duck had squeezed in his saucepan cupboard and never looked.
Mr Pig was still chattering on firing the same old question
Mr Duck was stuffing himself silly with Spanish sweets
Devouring one after the other in no order or hesitation
Never before had he had such nice treats.
Mr Pig finally tapped on the door of the cupboard and spoke
Mr Duck could not answer owing to too much food being in his beak.
Mr Pig was under the impression he was copying a bloke
When Mr Duck let out a gigantic squeak.
A line of ants were frog marching a leaf around his leg
Mr Duck froze like a solid lump of ice o a hot day.
His legs were shaking like they were scrambled egg
And his mind had gone into panic and was far away.
Mr Pig the protective one, at once became a superhero role
The door between them came down with a crash
To the annoyance of Mr Duck who had his head in a pudding bowl
Promptly hid the bowl and sweets in a flash.
“How dare you interrupt me” shouted Mr Duck with a frown.
His legs were twitching from the ants which were bothering him
Mr Duck got up off the floor and proceeded to jump up and down,
Mr Pig thought his actions were foolish and pretty grim.
One week later Mr Duck reluctantly emerged from the cupboard
And began to prepare something for Mr Pig to eat.
He ransacked the shelves like old Mother Hubbard
Rescuing some tins of something or other which were now obsolete.
Which was fine by the Pig, he ate anything he could get his trotters on
He was just pleased to be reunited with his dear old friend.
He dined until what=ever the meal was called was gone
He did not enjoy the slop and once more had to pretend.
fleeting, as the earth to
life stretches beyond
swinging feet. in a breath,
to mere marbles in
a childhood pocket,
drips from faucets on
upturned faces, squinting
through joy and soap.
life rolls over sidewalks,
around first steps, grating
on scratching pavement.
we've had our scars
more often than skinned knees
like piano wire, life
ties tune and blood through throat
it muzzles and goads
hyena, perched vultures cackling
life crams with cracking and
static in hope, panic.
on the outbreath
as the earth to rising sparrows.
so we all go-quiet.
only marbles, only scars.