The Gorko Gazette

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2.14.2025 6:36 AM

Who Killed Joe Hardy? and 1 more by Tim Frank

Who killed Joe Hardy?

‘Not me,’ said his rangy foe,
spent
on his corner stool
dashed with aching stains.
‘The ref played god tonight
he’s the one who murdered Joe.’
A brazen mob
with greedy eyes
swamped the ring,
squirming
in the deathly glow
of a roaming spotlight dread.
Joe lay still,
in rocked repose—
air mask bound
to his bloated lips.
‘I did my job,’ said the referee,
as the hour moved slowly on.
‘This is nothing new,
boxing’s cruel,
and so is life.
But his manager was in charge
It was him who made him fall.’
The manager bustled through the tangled crowd,
a wild and senseless beast.
‘I loved the man,
and I made him rich.
Ask the fans
they wanted pain
they cheered the final blow.’
Hardy was wheeled away
his body caked in sweat,
ready for the fire.
The crowd moved outside
grouped in tidy lines
by stewards dressed in red
steeled for warlike surges.
Instead, Hardy’s name rang out
and scarred the sky
with solemn songs
dipping
into neon gasps.
As the horde dispersed
the waning moon remained
and voices
swirled
from faithless men
dreaming of the dust.

What’s the Point?

What’s the point in saying I love you
when you really mean
kill me
with passive smoke,
as thunder clouds loom
like ocean waves
swelling with sewage.

What’s the point in a futile existence
if you glean all the answers
from mathematical signs
and white-hot light.

What’s the point in having a sister
if you can’t sleep with her friends,
with their Gaudi-esque rags
and incarcerated books,
torn like deltoid muscles.

What’s the point in starting a war
if you can’t drown the crazy brave
in acid rain
and buckets of sweat.

What’s the point in a name
if it dies with your forlorn mother
in an unkempt grave,
as elegies blaze in football stadiums.

What’s the point in praying to a god
when your world is a lotto cheque
mashed into a pulp,
with its numbers neatly grouped
like dated Seiko clocks.

What’s the point in snoozing
if you struggle with zombie breaths
and the curse of caffeine moods
like spiral manic breakdowns.

No, the point is
to oust the president
with strikes from battle drones
while tectonic plates
pummel fragile lands.

The point is
to find your face
stamped on dollar bills
filed in leather wallets
heaped by strippers’ feet,
because there’s magic in your eyes
floating like space debris
above carmine contrail skies.

ABOUT THE ARTIST

Tim Frank’s work has been published in Bending Genres, X-R-A-Y Literary Magazine, Maudlin House, The Forge Literary Magazine, The Metaworker and elsewhere. He has been nominated for Best Small Fictions. His debut chapbook is, An Advert Can Be Beautiful in the Right Shade of Death (C22 Press ’24)

Twitter: @TimFrankquill

Image generated on Magic Studio