A Night in the Life of the Ragetown Manager

'Where rage consumes, nothing remains.'
The Sunset Vagabond

On the night of the rage
the manager of Ragetown
takes to his bunker
under the clock tower.

He sits in a rigid chair,
his pinstriped suit threadbare,
his glasses newly cleaned,
his hair a bramble thicket,
his eyes a pale lime.

Rumours say he's been in charge since childhood,
when he arrived on the train by accident
and never left.
If he has a name
he's never spoken it.

He sits in a purple armchair,
monitoring the rage's progress
from the comfort of serenity.
Frenetic servants scuttle about
to whom he dictates which fresh chaos
should be unleashed next,
all the while his suit turns wrinkled,
his glasses shining like morning dew.

At first light he emerges,
his suit reeking, and the lingering
wake of the rage greets him.
The manager wipes his glases clean
with his untouched white handkerchief.

Super Bat

It hides in its roost
by a stream in the day.

The moths gather in the gloom.

Sonar is a society norm
among those winged hunters.

Detecting their prey with pin-point
proficiency in the dark.

The moths flutter through the leaves.

The long-eared hunter takes off,
no radar to guide it.

Just the rush and thrum
of a moth's wing-beat

can guide it on course.

The Oath of Rhain

This is the oath of the hunter,
these are the terms set in place,
that he may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.

Rhain, known to all as the Reaper,
countless are those I have slain.
My prey cannot outrun their fate
from the moment they hear my name.

I shall chase them to the world's edge,
my pursuit will never case.
Through the wind, the snow and the fire
nevermore will my prey know peace.

I shall bring my trophies to bear
and my task will be complete,
for I will not be eluded
I will never be dealt defeat.

This is the oath of the hunter,
these are the terms set in place,
that I may roam forever free
but never surrender the chase.

Ragetown

There's a town out there
where few people go,
surrounded by a battered steel wall,
a gnarled and twisted gate.
Open to a single train.

The train arrives
at dusk,
and newcomers
enter Ragetown
through the carriage windows
or kick down the doors.
Ticket barriers are made
to be vaulted.

The streets ignite
after dark
with unadulterated pandemonium.
People choose their weapons
insensibly
as is the way of the rage.
The signal is a body
hurled through a bar window.

Mobs flood the main square
and the rage takes hold.

The fighting erupts,
blossoms into a no-holds barred brawl,
an incandescent blur of madness.

People unleash their fists and teeth,
some armed with cutlery and gardening tools.
Someone sprints through the chaos
waving a mace above their head,
another whisks their victim's face
into crimson abstract artistry.
A would-be chainsaw massacrist
caught in a flamethrower's blaze.

Windows shattered,
walls torn asunder,
houses flaming ruins,
streets obliterated,
the bank demolished
by an enthusiastic demolisher
with weapon's grade wrecking ball.
The bank manager
flings his cash as arrows,
then is flung into the next street.

Heads smacked against doors,
tables dismembered with knives and forks.

The road rage arrives.

Cars screech,
flail around in the dust.
Skulls and bodies
crushed under tyres
as a bus slams
into the steel wall
while lorries smash and crash,
horns ring down the roads.
A solitary woman in a trolley
careens through the mayhem.

The rage subsides
and the streets fall silent.
Only when the light returns,
it reveals the wreck of Ragetown
smouldering in the glare.

NaPoWriMo #30: The Spring Tiger

In the shade of the sal trees by the silent grass
where the chital and the sambar grass en-mass
sits the ruler of the lakes keeping watch
while a butterfly rests on her tawny shoulders.

The tigress watches pairs of spotted stags
prancing and posturing side by side,
paying their usual menace no heed
for the monkeys keep watch on her

until they turn their back to the trees
and the mother of the maidens disappears,
stripes distorting her amidst the grass
as a ghost with white-spotted ears.

She lunges out from the nothingness
and the stag crashes to the earth,
teeth embedded in his throat
while alarm calls flood the forest.

NaPoWriMo #29: Herring Feast

A lone spout on the rolling sea,
towering above the surf.
The first signal of a great summer feast
and the first dinner guests start arriving.

The spouts billow out from the waves
followed by flukes breaking the water
like banners for the rest of the pod
directing them to the shoal.

The ring of bubbles rises,
a circle formed in the depths,
a net with no rope or mesh
in which the herring jostle.

The cavalcade of whales erupts,
mouths agape as though calling,
engulfing the school in unison,
gorging on the plentiful bounty

before turning and descending
into the ocean blue once more
to lay their trap anew
and relish the summer currents.

NaPoWriMo #28: Matriarch

Just when it seems the drought is at its end,
a new day arises, sunshine and all.
The lakes dry out, the rivers join the trend
grasslands now deserts awaiting rainfall.

The elephants trek through the baking wastes,
the matriarch following ancient trails
urging her family on with great haste
to a place she knows from her mother's tales.

An oasis in the sand, out of sight,
the herd quench their thirst at the waterhole
alongside other animals who won their fight
against hunger, heat, and the drought's harsh toll.

The matriarch spots lions off in the haze,
they will not risk meeting her prudent gaze.
She watches on as her grandchildren play,
at dawn the herd will re-enter the fray.