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    Animal Ballistics
    Animal Ballistics
    Animal Ballistics
    Ebook114 pages1 hour

    Animal Ballistics

    By Sarah Morgan

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    About this ebook

    Sarah Morgan’s newest release of poetry, Animal Ballistics, is dark and charmingly bizarre. This book has a bone for every body - the regret hounds, the lake sympathizers, the lost who embrace their wilderness. Morgan explores the haunting and dream-like sensory of recalling, navigating the long corridors of loss, the four walls of self and the hilarity of the missing roof. Animal Ballistics digs at the root of survival, thoughtfully and comparatively holding it against the definition of “living.â€

    Animal Ballistics destroys what proof you have about survival... Sarah Morgan’s words make one feel as if they should begin to live and love with an originality - a new species of the spirit. -Danny Sherrard “Cast Your Eyes Like Riverstones into the Exquisite Dark"
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherWrite Bloody Publishing
    Release dateAug 13, 2010
    ISBN9781935904793
    Animal Ballistics
    Author

    Sarah Morgan

    USA Today bestselling author Sarah Morgan writes lively, sexy contemporary stories for Harlequin. Romantic Times has described her as 'a magician with words' and nominated her books for their Reviewer's Choice Awards and their 'Top Pick' slot. In 2012 Sarah received the prestigious RITA® Award from the Romance Writers of America. She lives near London with her family. Find out more at www.sararahmorgan.co

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      Book preview

      Animal Ballistics - Sarah Morgan

      Title Page

      Animal Ballistics

      a collection of poetry

      †

      by Sarah Morgan

      Write Bloody Publishing

      America’s Independent Press

      Long Beach, CA

      writebloody.com

      Copyright Information

      Copyright © Sarah Morgan 2010

      No part of this book may be used or performed without written consent from the author, if living, except for critical articles or reviews.

      Morgan, Sarah.

      1st digital edition.

      ISBN: 978-1-935904-79-3.

      Interior Layout by Lea C. Deschenes

      Cover Designed by Brandon Lyon

      Proofread by Jennifer Roach

      Edited by Derrick Brown, Saadia Byram and Michael Sarnowski

      Printed in Tennessee, USA

      Write Bloody Publishing

      Long Beach, CA

      Support Independent Presses

      writebloody.com

      To contact the author, send an email to [email protected]

      Dedication

      for Gregory P. Silk

      Special Thanks

      Special Thanks

      Shauna Morgan

      Derrick Brown

      Ross Hickerson

      Chelsea Ellington

      Sarah Octopus Haas

      Anis Mogjani

      Danny Sherrard

      Mark Chaump

      Paul Maziar

      Lea Deschenes

      Dan Leaman

      Infusion Café Poets

      Vox Ferus

      Griswald

      You never see animals going through the absurd and often horrible fooleries of magic and religion . . . Dogs do not ritually urinate in the hope of persuading heaven to do the same and send down rain. Asses do not bray a liturgy to cloudless skies. Nor do cats attempt, by abstinence from cat’s meat, to wheedle the feline spirits into benevolence. Only man behaves with such gratuitous folly. It is the price he has to pay for being intelligent but not, as yet, quite intelligent enough.

      – Aldous Huxley

      Train

      A black umbrella opens in my chest.

      How fast the landscape trickles by,

      I’m trying to understand

      what would break first if I jumped from this boxcar.

      Through the window,

      mountains of graffiti, rocks, and hunchback fences,

      a three-wheeler,

      yellow, red, and forgotten

      among the rubble.

      There is a man behind me,

      a black Southern gent,

      talking to someone he loves.

      He’s started humming something now,

      gentle as Georgia.

      I want him to choke.

      There is a foreigner to my left;

      I don’t think he can read this.

      If I knew any of that lover language,

      I’d write . . . Are you reading this?

      He smells like a fire pit of dehydrated embers,

      like one or all of my ex-flames.

      I want his euro-techno headphones to explode into him.

      Diagonally—a stupid-beautiful young girl

      in slender boots that I would use to ride horses.

      I want her to get pregnant, lost, fat,

      yellow then red then forgotten.

      And then me—

      among the heaps of pebble, web and gang names,

      with a shirt reading Can i hold you?

      Tears smuggling the luster from my cheeks—

      turpentine to mahogany.

      I only weep in profoundly public places

      where no one dares ask.

      If they did,

      I’d swallow hard,

      like a grade-school blow job,

      like your first funeral.

      I’d swallow hard and tell them to piss off

      or

      something pleasant,

      as long as I could blow my snot

      into their palm pilots.

      You see,

      there is a tiny retired maestro

      inside my skin.

      The grand orchestra plays on

      with no regard for him.

      He’s squatting on track six,

      plucking other empty notes,

      using playbills as toilet tissue.

      My poor minor chord friend . . .

      I’ve taken track seven again.

      When I get to where I’m going

      I’m sure I’ll pull out a quarter or two

      from a phone booth in the Northwest,

      looking for an answer,

      finding only an abandoned G-clef.

      I am dressed in layers of trains.

      I showed up

      with no pulse in my voice,

      loose change,

      stark naked.

      My heart, calling from a phone booth

      in the rain.

      The Pickling

      Blinking at the ceiling,

      a sterile voice told me it just didn’t take.

      There was still a pitter-patter.

      The fleshy onion plummets to the stew below.

      I wanted you then.

      Before you ever thought money or war or women,

      I laid on the examining bench

      with all my useless hopes:

      baseball cards in spokes,

      teaching you music theory,

      un-punishing you against time.

      I put my hand to my womb

      as if it were a garden hose running dry—

      as if the perennials would never come again.

      Why We are Different

      You like peppers.

      I do not.

      The girl you love

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