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HELEN CHILD
POET . COMEDIAN . ARTIST
Biography
The Lost Princess
I search for you in the sands of time
in the dark, wild desert of imagination,
with the roaring winds at my back.
Through darkness and daylight,
I search the blizzard-dunes of eternity,
where I know you to be,
buried deep.
One glimpse of your fragile form,
staggering through it's vastness.
Grab your hand,
take you back to me.
Where is your tomb
in the sands of eternity?!
A wreath, you placed
round my gold nesk.
One farewel touch
and then you wept.
And I, as only spirit be,
watched helplessly from above,
as Pharaoh's men took you out,
into that desert.
I heard you scream,
heard you cry.
In agony,
I heard you die.
Where are you buried
in the sand of time?
Dearest one,
who's heart was mine.
Where are you buried??
© Helen Child 2008 - 2009
HANGOVER!
Today, I am a dead crow,
sprawled, lifeless,
benieth a big, old tree.
The mocking birds
who pecked out
my eyes and heart,
chirp incessantly,
in a far off paddock.
But the only sound here,
is the soft moan of the wind,
ruffling my feathers.
I am frozen
in the deepest stillness.
Eternity echos
through my rigored tunnels.
The arching sky
turns grey tin ,
above my tiny frame.
It brings damp air.
And with it, rain,
but I am safe
benieth my tree.
The damp excites!
Brings life,
from Dr Frankenstien.
My moribunded chest and gut,
now beat hard and fast
With life again!
Hall-ill-uya! I'm awake!!!
My innerds pulse, convulse and heave!
My empty head begins to chatter,
as what rises from my gut
and out my beak...
my head exlpodes the vilest matter!!!
Wiggling maggots, splatter fourth,
rolling in their rancid jelly,
bursting from my chest and belly!
Spilling out with putrid stinks!
My withered frame, recoils and sinks...
Oosing, with as many maggots,
as the counless hours of banality,
that eat away
so many human lives.
These are absent in the lives
of wild birds.
Life is dangerous, joyous, immediate!
We savour every living moment.
Build no cages
like the long leg cuckoos.
So they cage us,
shoot us, eat us,
take such pleasure
in our decay.
They stuff us,
feed us,
fuck us
with their maggoted banalities,
until
We rot!!
The hunter who took my life,
before he aimed and shot,
pompously proclaimed,
"All birds have consciousness not!"
A self-fullfilling prophecy,
now that I am dead.
How I wish that it were true!
My consciousness lives on...
and my remains do too.
Copyright © Helen Child 2008 - 2009
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