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Alligator Stew
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Thanks to everyone who has supported this project
Mr Lally
Chapter 1 - A Christmas Tale
on Thursday 19 November 2009 - 22:34:32 | by Mr Lally
“It’s been 25 years since my last confession and I have a terrible sin that I need to tell you father” “Tell me child, what is this sin that brings you to the arms of God after all these years?” “I passed wind in a crowded lift” “Child, this is but a bodily function, one that God gave you...” “Wait. I haven’t finished.
Then I lit a cigarette.”
That day still haunted him. The faces of his co-workers as their hair lit up like kindling, slowly evolving into a mess of screaming, swearing, and thick toxic smoke. For reasons that he still could not explain, during the ensuing panic, he had pinched the bottom of the attractive secretary from accounting, whilst shouting “I’ve found the source of the fire!”. He had never been good with women, and he had never been able to take ownership of his gas.
Death Calling
on Wednesday 11 November 2009 - 17:41:00 | by Mr LallyThe telephone has a different ring
when a message of death is waiting.
The call makes you jump,
sends an uneasy quiver.
Anyway, I got a call like that today,
but when I answered, someone hadn't died,
except the operator
selling cancer insurance, through
tumor infested lips.
If God is the answer, what is the question
on Wednesday 11 November 2009 - 17:37:46 | by Mr LallyI didn't lose God
Said the man
I never found him
He stared into the bottom of his glass
You won't find him there
Said his concerned friend
I wasn't looking
He said
I gave that up long ago
Those Last Moments
on Wednesday 11 November 2009 - 17:32:57 | by Mr LallyThe last time I saw her,
she was arrested in a formica chair
that was giving out along with her weak lungs.
Despite the draft whistling
through the ward, I could still warm my hands
by the fading light in the back of those eyes.
Her eyes.
Between tests and beeping machines
she murmured an old show tune
and I saw the woman I loved as a boy.
And, as a man, I tapped my foot;
not impatient, just recognising
the tune.
Page 52, Obituaries
on Friday 16 October 2009 - 16:16:03 | by Mr LallyOn the afternoon of my death,
I crushed butter into the fluffy white belly
of a jacket potato.
Outside, the sun had broken through heavy grey clouds
and my daughter had laughed,
as she danced upon the rain wet grass.
'Don't get those new shoes dirty'
I had shouted.
Looking back, it wasn't the shoes that bothered me,
it was my bare feet, entrenched behind a line,
stopping me from running into the rainbow.
Well, at least they're happy
on Thursday 08 October 2009 - 14:01:14 | by Mr LallyThe pigeons
are lively on this Autumn chill.
Clubbed feet and greased feathers.
But, there's a joy
in their scratching today, heads bobbing time
to a buskers tunes, and the crumbs scatter
like notation
across a concrete score.
When the Bees Die
on Thursday 08 October 2009 - 13:50:45 | by Mr LallySo, there he was again,
drinking hot coffee in the park, smoking cigarettes,
and thinking.
The day was still early enough
that the flower petals stayed closed, hugging
the remainder of yesterdays sun.
Somewhere, there is a bee, lost
on his way home from work; a face full of pollen
and wings weary from flight. If he stops searching,
he will surely die, and the man, drinking coffee
and smoking cigarettes,
will mourn its passing. Just as he mourns
the passing of each day.
Alligator Stew
on Monday 05 October 2009 - 21:13:05 | by Mr LallyThe great 28 challenge has begun to collate submissions, produce, and print a zine. If you were linked here from somewhere, then you can keep up to date by clicking the 'Alligator Stew' tab above. If you would like to submit poems/doodles/illustrations, please send here>
-email-.
Please feel free to leave comments of either support or hate.
Yours always
Mr Lally
p.s I am no longer offering refunds to those left disappointed by your visit
A Thousand Lonely Deaths
on Wednesday 23 September 2009 - 19:27:38 | by Mr LallyAs little clouds, the feathers float,
over the pigeon, dead upon the rooftop.
The rain is so light, it hangs upon the dense fog,
spilling from this minor death; unnoticed,
but for the maggots, squirming and spilling
from the birds fetid breast. A thousand deaths
happen like this.
Gravesides empty, but for the gallow eyes
of the digger, turning soil, dulling the sound
of a creaking wooden box, empty
of warmth. Just cold
skin and bones.
the story of the gardener
on Wednesday 23 September 2009 - 19:17:23 | by Mr LallyI could write a novel about this gardener.
His eyes are as dead as the leaves he rakes
and the way he stops and stares,
as if waiting for something, someone.
He disappears behind the rosebush,
reappearing minutes later, with those same eyes,
hollow and more sorrowful than the widowed swan.
Of course, we are never truly writing of the gardener,
we are the dead leaves, hoping to find refuge in, well,
let's say his name is John.
Thank you John. I may have killed you,
but today, I feel a little more alive.
