Knights of the Smooth Hull

by on Jul 28, 2016 in Poetry | 0 comments

The hull of the ship is

sleek, but I’ve never touched it.

Nobody living has. Pictures let

us guess and stories let

us imagine, but it is a thing that both

surrounds and alludes.


I’ve read about the sky.

In my daydreams I gallop

on horseback as we hunt under that

lid on creature to eat

creature. Now all gather with slack faces for

stale provender chips.


We used to be alive …

used to wander and wonder

and dream. Now we all wait. But for what?

We left the Earth to save

humankind, but when we arrive we won’t be

alive … walking shells.


Some of us know this. Some

of us fear this. We don’t have

sky, but we have a game. Short wire

is the quest the rest are

knights of the smooth hull. We hunt among rivets

to save (kill) people.


I tremble when I think

about New Earth. What we might

find and who (what) we will need to kill.

The architects built the

infrangible skin for life. But jagged teeth

keep us awake, alive.

Chris Phillips was born in the heart of Kentucky, but being the son of a traveling preacher, he grew up across the country, devouring a buffet of American culture. His fiction can be found in IGMSPenumbra eMag, and elsewhere. He also works as managing editor for Flash Fiction Online. Visit him online at

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