Jack McKenna: Two Poems

Neuromantics 

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What sound does a clock make? Start there. We must know time is never steady. The river's jaggedness leads us deeper into the jungle. Besides spiders and the horny chimpanzee, all books are on the shelf. There are no longer any shelves, maybe an engine. I see you: in a colourful jacket frolicking about. Don’t think I’m immune to becoming a thumb. I know the dance better than you, mate. That’s why I’ve brought a packed lunch with all my fears. Messengers travel the waves like battered pirates. Greet with open arms ye rascals, I know my friend here needs a hug—it was so quiet he heard a branch snap.


Monster Movie

Nothing is a secret anymore. The gilt
of inundation dulled in 2016,
if I remember, when the linear path
towards your last footprint was traceable. There
were no debates about the effects; it was
a ‘see how it goes’ situation. A bing
bong, uh oh, hehe haha arrangement.
Your slight slouch and chubby cheeks in the garden
where perhaps you had your first kiss—or wanted
it. Hovering feeling of a locked gaze. First
time being seen. All arriving in that one
image, as if your shoulders couldn’t bear it.
Thank you very much everyone. This field
we’re in. (Stupid trees, sense of continual
adventure. (You are uneasy. Pockets of
silence with always that ringing not distant.
There are programs to regain comfort but that
noise never quite ends. Like those starlings outside
your window. Befuddlement sounds early. That
synapse glitch drift through the repertoire: buildings
as dust, sparkle of lip, textured paint.) The great
fullness of life.) Perhaps an answer to what
shapes we swallowed young. You found a fix because
you were taught to take from a higher shelf. And
the thrill of it. But the result is losing
your outlines, which is no longer possible.
(Unless you can complete one of the programs)
You must unrealise your magnificence on
the brutal mattress waiting for the drumbeat
to cease. That friction between definition
and dissolution. Knowing, if it's not you,
someone eventually becomes a cat
amongst pigeons. Every flurry a chance
to glean no other field. Returning to peck
with a refined curve. Ask, is rhythm beyond
determination? Your fifteen evenings
thinking about defeat versus acceptance,
the contours, the merits. Issue of resolve
despite, or despite resolve. Last week, I stood
as steady wind shook leaves from a tree. I had
enough. Tomorrow, you will continue it,
sharpening your pencil before drawing lines,
and that is how. What changes in a tree-lined
street, the occasional fish in the sewer.
Measure of breath when the coffee arrives
sooner than expected.






Jack McKenna is a poet and photographer based in Manchester. He has recently published work in STAT, Carmen et Error, and Butcher's Dog. In 2024, he self-published Street Musicians, a book of photography and poetry. In 2025, he launched scant, a print magazine of poetry and photography featuring contributors from around the world, with an exhibition in Northern Quarter, Manchester.