Crocodile Tears

Centre piece.  The eye of the predator has been set into the front of the handbag.  Varnished.  Polished to perfection.  Shining in the midday sun.    Having trouble shopping for the Missus? Then buy her a reptile skinned handbag.  For the small sacrifice of the Nile's fiercest predator, bring home this fantastic present that will make your wife love you for ever and ever and ever and ever and ever.

The accessories crash and bash in the bag.  Fighting for room.
Rolling from one side to the other.  Rolling from one side to the other.
Souvenirs, compacts, key rings, the odd adorable reptile hatch ling.
Not even the bourgeoisie can tame wild animals.  You will not grow into it.

You rip the smile out of the crocodile. Me, you, I, him, her, we all share toothy grins.
You wear a cashmere coat of scales.  It falls past your ankles.  Be careful you don't trip.  You cry fake tears.  It lures the animal in.  You blast it to oblivion.

Is it a scarf? No it's a snake.  With marble smooth skin.  It moves down the woman's body, as she shivers in fear and disgust.  It dances away through the grass, leaving the human to lumber after it.  CLIP! CLOP! CLUNK! CLUMP! STAMP! BANG!
Who had the luckier escape?

Slow and steady wins the race, unless you're a tortoise.  The hunters sprint to the finish and bide their time.  They endlessly wait, as the hands trudge around the face.  Tick Tock.  Tick Tock.  Tick Tock! Tick TOCK! Tick TOCK! TICK TOCK! How much time do reptiles have?
Who are the real front runners?

*Author's Notes*

A continuation of my environmental poetry, this time focusing on the Reptile trade

Shattered

If you're going through hell, keep going." -Winston Churchill

Have you ever ran from a war zone? Have you ever ran from the Sandman? Have you ever been chased by silently screaming soldiers? Have you ever seen victims of war? Have you ever heard how they whimper? Have you ever smelt burning rubber? Have you ever been touched, by the smoke from a freshly fired gun? Let me tell you something.  If you're going through hell,

keep going.  The entire world shivers in fear.  Something is hiding down there.  In anger, in frustration, in torment, it brings down its scaly fist.  Reverberations are felt throughout the planet.  The oldest of trees stumble and stagger.  The coldest of buildings shake and shudder.  Humans, animals, vegetation alike are sheltering from the fearsome earthquake.  You watch childhood memories crumble into oblivion.  Let me tell you something.  If you're going through hell

keep going.  The printing presses have ran out of ink, ran out of paper.  The common man is reduced to the dole.  To escape from this hole, he might've to sell his soul. What choice do they have? Rolling around in dirt and filth.  Scavengers hiding in a dump.  It's not our fault, they say.  No.  Not me.  Never. they say.  Blame him, her, them, they say.  The average Joe waits.  Every Chandra, Garcia and Tyler hopes for change.  You and me, we pray.  John Smith has ran out of patience, ran out of hope.  He collapses in the gutter.  I kneel by him and say one thing.  If you're going through hell,

keep going.

*author's notes*

All credit to Winston Churchill for thinking up the awesome quotation.  From what I understand the Sandman is an equivalent to the Grim Reaper.  As you can see for each stanza I explored a different definition of "hell."  The identity of "they" in the third stanza, is open for interpretation.

Left Behind

"They fuck you up, your mum and dad.  They don't mean to, but they do." Philip Larkin

Good old parents,
sending me to a secondary school,
where I was alone. Isolated.  Deserted.  Abandoned.
An insignificant fish in a sea of
sharks.

I was the epitome of outsider.
Everybody
laughing.
Screaming!  Endless noise
smothering my deaf ears.  Everyone else in their social
circles.  Closely K-N-I-T-T-E-D.
I felt like a piece of stray
wool.
Slowly unravelling, as I drifted from one group to
another.  Hoping for interaction.  Receiving neglection.

They knew I'd be alone.
They knew I'd have no friends.
They knew I'd be a wanderer.  A migrant.  An undesirable.
They knew.

It didn't stop them.

Everybody else.

Me.

The weight of the Others.
Suffocating.
Crushing.
Pushing
down
on
Me.

I remember.

*Author's Notes*

In this poem, I let out all of my teenage angst and edginess.  This was partly written for school and partly based of the awesome quotation.  I felt that freeverse would be more effective, for this type of poem.  It's been a while since I've experimented with structure like this.  I definitely resent my parents for doing this.  This is a bit of a rantish, moany type poem.  Not the best of my work, but I needed to express these emotions.

Harpoon

An organic submarine flies through the water, effortlessly.
Followed by horrible beasts who steal hope.
Men.  The silent assassins of the sea.
Teeth for torpedoes.  The shark's eyes are its periscope.
Can you hear the animal screaming in the dark? In agony.
Its freedom is taken.  Bound by rope.
All it can do is wait.  Can sharks cry?

The harpoon rips through the serrated skin, easily.
The animal's eyes begin to slope.
It writhes in the crystal black water.  A simple amputee.
This was never predicted in its horoscope.
The lion of the sea has changed into a snivelling puppy.
Its trickling blood is the colour of taupe.
The leaking liquid attracts other predators, moving in on the sly.

Cartilage crushed to cure cancer.  Teeth turned into a trophy.
Man's reward is a single cheque.  Delivered in a white envelope.
The Dorsal Fin is churned into a tasty
soup.  A luxurious treat for those at the height of the slope.
The prey's infected. Through the animal's bloodstream, the chemicals flee.
Listen to the frantic heartbeat of a netted shark.  Use a stethoscope.
Beating a thousand times a minute.  Preparing to burst out and fly.

Sharks are misunderstood.  A mystery
shelled in a cocoon.  Viewed through the tainted lens of Man's telescope.
Hunters should thrash in cages, while sharks are free, sailing majestically.
The poachers tuck into Cazon.  Manufactured from the meat of the Tope
shark.  The lions of the sea are an enigma shrouded in ambiguity.
Men ravage anything they can't control.  All they do is interlope.
The sharks are dissected until they're memories, drifting through the sky.

*author's notes*

My second in my environmental-based poetry.  ped me edit this.  I'm not really a fan of rhyming poems, I much prefer freeverse, but I gave it a shot here.   I wrote this in the rhyme scheme of A-B-A-B-A-B-C.  This was certainly a challenge.