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Courtenay Schembri Gray
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the poet
Born and raised in the North of England, Courtenay Schembri Gray reared her head as a budding poet with a penchant for the macabre. Since finding kinship in the rich verse of Sylvia Plath, Courtenay has amassed a large amount of publishing credits. Her poetry collection, The Maggot on Maple Street, was published in 2023.
the poems
Charlie
His stubby fingers grope me, and I scream only air.
I am a huntress, yet I despise the taste of flesh and blood.
With his half-dead slant, the man buries my despair.
Muddy waters slough the sin off my back while I violate my pear.
Daddy’s belt loops around schoolboy errors, threatening to flood.
His stubby fingers grope me, and I scream only air.
Upon the eve of moonstruck men, I open my cervical lair.
You heave rare meat onto the table, harder than you should.
I am a huntress, yet I despise the taste of flesh and blood.
You swaddle her like a baby, leaving only shoes for her to wear.
When we first met, I don’t think you understood.
His fingers grope me, and I scream only air.
We stand on porcelain cracks, silent, with nothing to declare
Somehow, despite it all, you found me like an earring stud.
I am a huntress, yet I despise the taste of flesh and blood.
You have turned me into a woman, but I will not share.
Let’s leave the world with a gift, richer than others would.
His fingers grope me, and I scream only air.
I am a huntress, yet I despise the taste of flesh and blood.
June Bug
With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
A paper lantern hangs from every bloody coat hanger.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am to be born again.
Lost in a June bug cocktail, I fall for a Parisienne.
He bought me roses, and I threw them in anger.
With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
You know, I think about you every now and then.
For a red-blooded man, you were placid in manner.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am to be born again.
To my dirty photographs, you would say très bien.
Rubbing coconut rum into skin, I would yammer.
With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
Darling, I need you like I need goddamn medicine.
Inside a chrysalis, I preach grief-stricken slander.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am to be born again.
You left me with echoes of Non, je ne regrette rien.
With starry thighs and coal miner skies, I languor.
With Bambi eyes all aflutter, I drink from the well of men.
Under the cloak of 6 am, I am to be born again.
The Maggot
on Maple Street
Shaken from my sleep
by yellow taxi dreams;
toothpaste is my cork,
stopping the wine from
sloshing around the great
caboose that is I, way off
the wagon, face down in
the sludge. Moontime
butter shoots me in the
eye, hot syrup; that sticky
pudding, fat with guilt and
irony. O’ how I fabricate
the lowest despair, the
deadliest joy, finer than lace,
as impure as rendition. Swear
me a fishwife, an earwig, a
flotsam woodlouse with but
a cube of cheese to stay afloat.
I must get back to the desk, to
the coffee rings and grassy knolls.
To the looking glass, without delay.
Publishing credits
Charlie: The Book of Korinethians (Pink Plastic Press)
June Bug: Idle Ink (March 2022)
The Maggot on Maple Street: Roi Fainéant Press (Oct 2022)
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