The Last Tuesday Society

Poetry | Jessica Lightfoot-Toye

The muntjac’s mind is always empty.

Cranial pressure caused by the awkward

positioning of its ocular cavities render it

unable to comprehend the steep compendium 

of its own anatomy. 

Thoughts are momentarily suspended 

before floating upwards to cloud the mid-air 

inflating takifugu, lagocephalus, 

lesser sphoeroides, diodons 

spiral in their own solar system

eclipsing one another while simultaneously 

threatening galactic implosion.

Crowning the indices with physiological 

evidence of ex-lovers/former conquests

the paint-throwing wastrel 

circumventing jazz unknowingly ordains

his address book to the unimpressed barmaid 

as patron saint of hypocrisy, sublimely 

distorting phallic envy.

Alienated from their kind the morally depraved 

have miraculously defined their own purpose. 

Those who dare not to rewrite their letters 

are left to contemplate the possibility 

of pleasure in solitude.