Hunter in the Hood

Writing challenge: write a poem including these ten words - Berserk. Bomb. Innocent. Machines. Merriment. Olive. Squalor. Tinker. Venery. Void.

(This was a tough one!)

Standing over the open hoods

of age rusted machines,

with an oil rag in his back pocket

and a spanner in hand, he stared,

motionless in his lethargic hopelessness.

Olive skinned, with a face carved

into crevasses and canyons

by the tender ministrations

of a life bleached by squalor,

he prepared to tinker with their innards,

to try and coax a few last begrudging miles

from engines begging for merciful abandonment.

Silent and motionless as his eyes glaze,

his poverty-stained mind, a soulless void

empty of laughter and merriment

teetered one pace from the edge.

A potential bomb of unexpressed anger,

his thoughts taste of barbaric venery.

Visions of hunting, and of piercing soft flesh

fills his mind with lust

and his flat eyes flash feral…

Then with a sigh, and a soft shake of his head,

the thoughts are banished from within.

He returns to blankness and security,

safe from the version of himself,

gone berserk.

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