A Brief Life of Hindley the Poet

Hindley the Poet

A Brief Life of Hindley the Poet



His feet were ticklish because he always wore shoes because his feet were ticklish.



One day his hands went mad and would not stay still. Even in his dreams they clenched, clutched, flexed, fluttered, wiggled and waved. He surrounded himself with pugs to pet in rotating shifts.



His ribs, finding themselves charged with protecting his heart, grew cagey. They pulled layer on layer of camouflaging fat over themselves, became invisible guards of that hard-laboring prisoner.



His veins carried cells swimming awry, dizzied by fermented juniper berries. Bloodfish nibbled at his liver.



In his brain quick currents over time thickened and slowed, sediment accumulated, sandbars rose. His fingers stirred the muck. Now and then they brushed a slippery shape that squirmed away and burrowed deeper out of reach.



His tongue turned to rotten wood, not good even for kindling. When he tried to speak, it pulped against his palate. Dust clogged his throat, foulness filled his lungs. He spat it out, and discovered he could sing.


Basil Cartryte

November 2022