Soon-to-be 3rd year English student David Eatock has sent in two really beautiful pieces of writing. Just like the poems he’s submitted in the past, we’re very impressed by his work.
Grab a cup of coffee, take a break from your busy day, and enjoy.
the pit will come to life in a child’s quiet bedroom that is occupied by a dusty, cobwebbed stroller and unicorns toys and Mommy lays there on a crying day where tears run amok on the outside air while the inside air is as thick as concrete, but as transparent as glass
and inside of Mommy things are also looking bleak; there is no crying or breaking to be found, but a hardening that swells like a sheet of ice until, over time, when the sullen caress of a memory comes from a hand with jagged nails and a hole opens up in that swollen sheet of turmoil so Mommy can feel the breaking again, so she can peer into that hole, that toothless mouth that never chews and travel into it.
she stands at the entrance; fumes of smoke drift from the hole with an emanating perfume of ash that is nipping and beckoning all at once and it is like a cliff side, it instills fear in Mommy as she travels downwards on pointed and snake coiled stones that protrude from the mountainous descension as if intended for climbing
and on the walls a face is carved many times over, the face of a man who fucked Mommy and then disappeared leaving nothing but a rancid seed beneath her skin that grew roots and stems and grew one small plant that promised to be plucked prematurely
that plant is beckoning from the bottom of the pit in a high pitched, prodding and feline voice with a dulcet tone that reverberates loudly and paints the walls in a pink pastel and the carved faces of the fucking man shift to that of a smiling and rosy cheeked girl, so Mommy, at ease, lets go of the stones and falls to the bottom like a feather
(no breaking today, she thinks, perhaps a freezing, I think)
the surface is a child’s quiet bedroom that is occupied by a gleaming stroller and unicorn toys and Mommy finds it on a sunny day where flamingos hop about with gaiety and milk men deliver with smiles on their faces and a living, breathing daughter plays with her toys and a loving, committed father prepares them dinner and a beautiful, centered Mommy looks on with glee.
while outside of Mommy the rain keeps falling, the stroller gets dustier, the thick air of concrete failure trudges through the halls like the restless landlord of the home where Mommy sits alone with drool dripping from her mouth and eyes rolled back in her head, eyes that peer inward on a land of sunny bullshit.
– – – – – – – – – – – – –
That old station wagon in the woods
is buried by trees
with ropes tied round their trunks
while the car keys sleep in the ignition,
layered in cobwebs that surround them like blankets
a group of youngsters fixed the wagon up
during one rainy summer and they were giddy in their victory,
but imagine their dismay when the keys turned
and that old, paint chipped and squealing wagon
drove itself into a pond, submerged its head in the muck
and fell asleep there
and I saw them then, I saw them frowning beneath
the airborne and spinning tires
like sad little sculptures
and I went to them, as a friend, and I asked,
“Why fix it? Don’t you know that it wants to be broken?”