The Last Bawdy Suet
The distance between here and there
runs the length of a bar,
optics at half measure.
Squint, accordingly, sharp cut of your hair
asymmetric to hide the eye.
Fag pinchclenched behind your back.
Hot gaze toasts rare steaks,
blueblooded skirt and flank,
sparsely seasoned, seared by your stare
as they flex over tables. Make the break.
You steer your interest to rump.
Meanwhile, scrape up carbonised leavings
griddled and scorched, burger bun shaped
, all hands to the beer pump,
dreaming of droit de seigneur.
Rolling dunes all look alike.
In the sussuration between
silence and Scirroco,
I search for a memory.
Find only a soft impression
of sensation, once embedded.
Gone, as grains shift
in the grateful breath of a new day.
Sept 12 ed 26.11.12
Post Apocalyptic Broadcasting Corporation
Breeze blocks and tallow candles,
we survive Policy and meltdowns
by sacrificing the odd goat.
Light our way with their difference,
despair and bodyfat.
Wicks trimmed, we keep our heads down.
But the deadlines, dead faces, type faces
shout an imperative: Get the story out there,
spiked for the lionised, browsing.
Black coffee and Gauloise, at Seventeen the world was ours
with a shared copy of De Beauvoir and a bacon sandwich.
From elevated seating in the shopping centre,
waves of humanity crashed on barriers of vision.
We hooted derision at the suck and pull of coves
labelled fashion, press of the new.
Ten per cent discount for students;
no discrimination of who perused or pursued.
We thought we'd change society and its squamous cell
like growth on the face of the Earth
forgetting metasases, ignorant of our own betrayal,
yet to manifest, part of the whole.
Oct '12 ed 26.11.12
Don't forget your deodorant
Why would I want to bench press dead weight.
Symbolic, circular, blank faces don't smile
whisked up into shared grace, warm embrace
of childhood, roseate candy-tuft, full
in the bloom of sun-charmed youth.
Why would I strain on running mill fit for hamsters,
my legs quiver for hills, unforgiving of any ill,
they welcome all to swarm dark crevice,
rise with gravid swell, run their ridge
as they thrust to the light.
Why would I need approval for shape,
gained in artifice, doing without meaning;
my mind braces itself for lost moments.
They will come. I paint white lines,
take my exercise in marks,
for those yet to know.
Oct '12 ed 26.11.12
Bounce sound off clouds, context is all.
Where a comfort blanket swaddles
construction and deconstruction.
Lennon calls, from his silver lining.
Meaning lost under fluffy hummocks.
No crackle from damp leaves,
slow to burn. Smoke uncurls
like a backslash between then
and now; a shade of thought,
an edge of hindsight.
Pyre of dreams,
I told my mother of you, how you walk the Earth
with a single eye.
Child of mountains, son of snowfall,
you sing me a sky beyond my reach;
range and view of eyrie and nook
relieve mazed crux of joint at base.
In each glimpse, I fly,
feathers un-scorched as Icarus
I would bring those wings to her.
Dregs of a day drip from crystal bicuspids;
an ice witch.
Unseasonable charms, in slow melt.
Low light semblance of youth.
.....But what does a Poem do?
..... cling, a bur on fur, or tight curled wool schooled,
herded through a country's gates or urban hedgerow's barb and thorn
. ..... skitter on breeze, whipple and whoop
in paraglide drop to who knows what.
..... explode a mirth at lightest touch, girth,
a tempt for tweak and pinch, giggles spread
on banks and turf, unwelcome jest from warmer earth
..... plump themselves in sugared flesh, tempt in russets,
scents and dressed as morsels for all ever-mouths;
..... pass, untouched, to rest in dirt until they bloom and fruit again.
..... chewed upon, inner score might spread
in tune instead of seeds, flourish whole, in deeds. May 2013 ===================================================
I feel my curl
into shape-shifting sleep.
snuffle and rustle
russet in darkness.
Hunt and drowse
in must and spore.
Worn out strife, fires up dark billows.
Blow demons high in sallow clouds,
yellow against the moon.
We threw lavender heads on the blaze
a scent of peace and sleep.
Morning glazed, State and man,
bleary-eyed blink through fog.
Soggy husks of volcanic promise
litter the lawn.
edited into collection 06.11.13
you shaved your words
to flint point;
worked them, that when
credence would not
allow a tool
be mistaken for ought
but art of a man.
edited into collection 12.03.14
Our time is not measured
by paces in-between,
it races by impression,
marks of those who have been.
edited into collection 17.03.14
Shrine for a Knife (edit)
Once, a hot-air lantern
blew across my landscape,
stole my vision,for a moment,
tethered thought to transient glow.
A motherly breeze whisked the false light
out of sight,
flapped my coat around me,
dressed me in her sigh.
Cheap paper-wire frame chokes
another beast of burden,
in another field.
O blow wind, blow.
edited to collection 15.04.14