The Living Building
Falling now on the other side of a great iron fence.
Words would fail to explain,
a building made of flesh, squirming and breathing,
bloodfull, an unimaginable thinking thing.
All around the sour soil, people marching,
as the living building speaks through the earth.
Down with the mycelia,
its strange fingers stretching like roots.
Twisting and turning between footsteps.
Shifting the ground and piercing the soft soles of feet.
Against the cold metal, I wonder,
why have I come here?
Images suddenly strike my head,
little fingers nipping my heel.
Across the field,
the contorting flesh of the building conjures an eye
that stares into me between the procession.
The world falls out of focus and I am lifted.
Outside of my body, watching the violent herd below,
a voice whispers softly in my head.
The world changes and it is so beautiful,
made perfect just for me.
And as the voice in my head becomes a promise,
I open my eyes and feel the flesh of the building,
and I know that I am safe.
There Seemed a Broadcast
“When all things are done, and the flaccid
teal of the moon has turned sour—”
There seemed a broadcast
jumbled over cosmic airwaves.
And I came upon
spinning black towers,
round and round they spun.
Blurring into nothing
as the radio blared:
“The teething spectacle, and the tearing
of flesh, burning as the broken moon—”
And it was unmistakable,
the old fox-hole,
where the pale one sleeps.
Fastened to the world
like a tightened slipper.
The radio, continuing:
“Something else too, can’t you see it?
Hoary light over the city, flashes of—”
I couldn’t turn away as the
mighty gale blew through the
forest. And the grey-hewn sky
lit up in amber glow.
A mockery of sound as
the radio, fading softly:
“Ashes to ashes, ashes to ashes,
ashes to ashes, ashes to ashes —
Or Some Other Thing
Barefoot, we saw:
Black ships rising!
Hot iron grip,
back to forever,
neck straining,
what face is this,
it might have been,
a white dog.
Now pale horse,
now white horse,
now an army.
Twelve teeth,
with twelve between,
and twelve behind.
Holy books were death-written,
what water is blood,
milk all poisoned,
babes coughing,
Kalki, or some other thing.
Matter and fire and secrets,
a painting over there,
rise from fields,
it’s reaping time.
Bones like butter,
eviscerating light,
incomprehensible light,
maddening peeling stars.
— Brendan Brewster is a poet and teacher from the East Coast of Canada. His work explores folklore, liminal spaces, and the collision of myth and modernity. His poetry has been featured in publications such as The Grapevine and “Bigfoot Country” (Celtic Frog).