‘The Residuals (Or the Death of Harry Potter)’ & Collected Works
Matthew McCain is an author and fine artist with 3 of his novels reaching the top #10 on Amazon Kindle Unlimited. His fine art paintings can be found all around the world from London to Las Vegas with Bar Rescue’s Jon Tafer and Alice Cooper’s Teen Youth Rock Center in Phoenix, Arizona. McCain has developed a style he calls “extreme contrary”, which is meant to generate hidden meanings behind his pieces along with the titles.
the residuals (or the death of Harry Potter)
Two girls sat beneath an empty market stall
drinking from a quarter pint of vodka. Two cans
of Red Bull and a certain kind of privacy afforded
them where pavements are skinny with ice. Two hours
and the light will be gone. What can be made of this?
No-one hears what either is saying. Every ten yards
a defibrillator stands by the phone. These are the residuals,
wherever the revelation lies. Perhaps how Camelot
got started where children get stoned and dream
about the death of Harry Potter and they do not mourn
for England merely buzz with the warm coat smell
of charity shops. Love affords little more than their own
company provides when it comes to the moment
in a paper cup. All they know is the cold that brings
them in. The cold that finds them alive.
Something to do with the writing of memory.
All I want is to build a house of God
then sleep quietly.
At your feet.
It is something to do with the writing
of memory.
These are my days.
A river that looks like a room full
of books.
Time I cannot retrieve or relate.
The world has the heart of a moneylender.
I pass by the Temple,
and think of a line. Feel
my eyes closing like sleep.
It is something to do with the writing
of memory.
How yesterday it all made sense -
the idea of a message. Reaching out for all
other calamities.
A small transaction, apology,
or deaf sign.
It is something to do with the writing
of memory.
The Day of the Baptist
There is a certain abundance
about the red hem
of the Baptist’s cloak
where I glimpse it every
Mass around the corner
of the chapel gate. A piece
of wild man’s clothing
vibrant red as though
the colour alone were telling
you, to turn the page,
forget the world,
prepare a road.
There is a certain dishonesty,
about the red hem
of the Baptist’s cloak.
A proposal of marriage, no doubt.
The minute changes seeing.
It isn’t the shape of her neck,
when I think about the time
difference. A year, more or less
is surmountable. A minute
less so - pressed close
a kind of passing glance.
Just a tiny curl of red
material. Rams wool
rough to touch. The day
I didn’t ask you to marry
me you said, you liked
this church, enough to
turn the Baptist’s head.
limes
Let me pour you a drink
the way Chaplin tips
his hat at a black and white
sunset without sound,
the past one long, hot day
or the way I slept
like you were sitting
on a park bench
with a paper bag beside you
full of quiet limes.
fragment
One night the rain brought her to me.
An old bed in a small room.
On the wall, our shadows
made parachutes. Opened and closed.
Books on my shelves,
like a hundred hidden
cameras, while other side
of the window five minutes
of water collected, in a patient
darkness.
Jonathan Jones lives and works in Rome where he teaches English and American literature at John Cabot University.
