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Rhianna Knapp |
Rhianna Knapp, 23, currently studying at Newcastle University for an M.A. in Creative Writing. When her course finishes she hopes to begin a career in.................... [please fill in the blanks].
Mind-Reading
You, with your marble body-language,
your cerebral silence
filled with paradoxical noises
staticky, uncontrollable.
I lean towards you.
Greedy eavesdropper. Elbows at 150 degrees,
the back legs of my chair tilting.
I imagine a sack of dogs
whimpering to be set loose,
their paws numbly pawing at coarse cloth.
Your eyes blink and then flicker.
Something is wrong?
The table and drinks are conundrums,
our scenery a Rubik’s cube.
I would like to detach your retinas
and peer inside: a spy to a keyhole.
Stomp about with you in your head country
in absurd yellow wellies
hearing all the leaves artlessly crackle.
You pass me the menu.
It reads: Service Not Included.
The Man Who Built His House Upon The Rocks (Rianna Knapp)
So uber chic,
so ultra modern:
hooked up to its own intranet,
a house with sunken floors
and heating hidden in the walls -
what walls there were,
as everything was open,
spacious, minimum:
a white bare concept
to resemble heaven,
except he had a wet room,
huge plasma screens
in every bedroom, remote control
surround sound in the shower
and so on.
that everything would work out,
came equipped with tools --
spirit-level, cement, plaster, bricks --
and set about his grand design,
and yes it was rock-steady,
but are you surprised?
The real question is,
why, so soon, did he need an extension,
and what happened with that man who built his house upon the sand?
Bachelor No. 3
running after him,
butterfly nets slung over their shoulders,
bras padded with knotted bed sheets,
and t-shirts reading ACME.
A while ago he used to sympathise
with Coyote. How hard it was
to catch that bird!
But now, now he’s the bird,
legs zooming over inactive cats-eyes
In a blur. It isn’t funny! Everywhere reflects
a craggy red or orange. It isn’t funny!
Saliva shines on the corner of hands
wiped over lip-slicked mouths.
The air ripples.
Road grit assaults his pace.
They’re leapfrogging! Every millimetre counts.
He stretches his neck
forward. They’re near. He’s thinking,
One more bend and then
The cliff top ends. His toes quiver.
Small stones shower
down in a soundless hail.
For a moment he treads solid
air