Kirsty A. Niven: Two Poems

Alice

I'm not all there myself, 
losing my something, my everything - 
vanished in a sea of tears, a pool of pig blood; 
an impossible shower of playing cards
that came tumbling forth
from the rabbit hole prematurely, 
unravelling like madness. 

Lifeless stop motion figures
birth from me, these corpse creatures
a mimsy statistic, 1 in 4, 
going out altogether like candles. 
I paint the roses red with their blood, 
saturating the white
with its congealed muck. 

It takes all the running I can do
to keep from falling further, 
descending into serpentine riddles
of self pity that eat away at every last smile.
A nonsensical horror, 
a Svankmajer twist on the tale - 
this wasn't how it was supposed to end.

The Monster Under The Bed

Behind closed doors, 
the attack inevitable. 
Velvet darkness consumes, 
the heart a bass line. 
His candy cane legs unfold, 
the eyes that glow
blink open like a switch. 
The spider hands ready themselves, 
those Nosferatu claws, 
reaching for an ankle to grab.
The fist pops out, a Jack in a Box, 
a boxing glove on a spring, 
a concussive lullaby -
knocked into next week's sleep.

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