Poetry: "The Breaking Train" by Ian Brunner



Where does it go? The madness, I mean.


Thornton tells me to bite down on a piece of rubber.

He tells me that I won’t remember a thing.


I remember

the sound. It was like a

train braking inside my body.


I know there is no God, or at least, not a caring one, because

waking should never be painful.


Reality should not be harsh.


The grass cuts my feet.

I imagine a still lake. Almost

imperceptibly it starts to ripple.


The silence is broken by the braking train.


When I open my eyes, I am still, but, feel as if I am vibrating. Life

is not one thing or the other.


Stillness reminds me of death and sometimes I want that. Other times,

I want to move like a pot boiling over.


He tells me I won’t remember but I do.


It sounds like a braking train and smells like smoke in an empty, too sterile room.







Ian Brunner is a fiction writer and poet from Buffalo, New York who is currently residing in Atlanta, Georgia. His work has been featured in various journals and zines. Most recently in Rudderless Mariner, Selcouth Station, and Ghost City Press, as well as a forthcoming poem in Sledgehammer Press. He is the author of the chapbook, Ruminations (CWP 2017).