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Artwork: He Never Lets It Go by Will Jacques
Frankenstein Art
Gina Wisker
Writing is a Frankenstein art
a small unsavoury part
taken from someone you hate
matched with a dark thought
in a dark space
some glitter,
some stolen piece of television imagery
the strange habits of a friend you never liked
the left ear of your least favourite boss
the procrastination, the lies, the prevarication
of the colleague who is never there
the fabrications and inventions of the erstwhile lover
who is also never there
the promises the promises
the lies
the dreams
the small appendages
the everyday expectations
the disappointments
sewn together carefully
hooked into shape
forced into your pattern
they would never recognize themselves
It’s quite an art.
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In an English Country Garden 1
Gina Wisker
Why would the developers know,
or need to know,
of the ancient hospital site on which they now drive
their mindless, screeching, furrowing diggers?
Unearthing who knows what
scientific accidents,
medieval remains,
and babies’ skulls.
Those leftovers of sadness, secrets and brutality.
On the Fen Edge
of this ancient, overpopulated city
they disinter the centuries’ secret layers
down, down, to set
alternative foundations.
Now next door’s much improved, high value house
lurches, alarmed
on a precipice.
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Garden 2
Gina Wisker
March is the crueller month
promising, then withholding,
threatening last minute destruction
of the new,
the joys of spring
with turbulence.
Stirrings amongst the tuber roots
ripped up, decapitated tulips.
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Assemblage / a semblage
Gina Wisker
Whatever the internet tells you,
real people don’t get delivered mail order in an Amazon box,
except of course,
when they do.
For self-construction, read the information leaflet.
Putting the bits together in the wrong order, like a mock metal coat
stand,
will leave you with everything collapsed on the floor.
Nut and joint,
sinew and bone.
Putting the skin on first is a big mistake;
it all has to be coordinated.
The instruction leaflet, as usual,
was in eighteen different languages.
Struggling to find English,
eventually beginning to imagine the shape on the box made flesh,
groove and latch, hinge and screw.
Always looking for the right implements, the right tools.
Some of these are not what they’re cracked up to be either,
out of alignment.
One cut, one slip and you don’t have good join,
the hole would be useless and so much blood!
Even the plastic containers for all the fiddly diddly bits,
the fingers and the toes,
the nose and the ears,
the eyeballs the eyeballs good grief!
how to fit them into all those veins and bits and pieces.
It seemed so much easier on the internet.
It was possible then and there to pick out the one you wanted from
the list,
some could be delivered Prime the next day.
You can always complain and send it back later.
But tricky this, with pools of blood, guts, sinews,
all mixed up in a bit of a mess on the hall floor in a bucket,
with the sloppy bits you couldn’t find a home for.
Hoping in the end, well-constructed it doesn’t look too much
different from the advert
on your screen.
But how to make it work?
The key is missing.
There must be a piece that’s stuck somewhere by gunky blood
to the bottom of the
box.
Or perhaps you got an inferior model in the first place.
I’m pulling my hair out!
It’s standing straight as if electrocuted.
My god – who thought this was a good idea?
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