Monthly Archives: July 2013

Blank Pages, Empty Lines

The blank page reflects your

blank stare when I mention poetry, the

empty lines your empty eyes

when you watch me write, the

comma your arched eyebrow, the

colon that obstruction in your gut, the

full stop your certainty that I’m wasting

time, energy, money, my

career downhill into this

morass of words in which you can find

no solid ground.

 

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Evening Primrose

Each evening the flowers burst like

bullets seeking out the Moon to

mimic her slow slide through

new-born rust, soured cream,

cruel white, startled yellow to

red and dead,

Random Thoughts on Hot Weather

Under a cortado Moon a

blackbird chirps alarm—

at what? Some shadow

thickening with the light into

something dark?

 

The car window is just cracked, not

enough in hot weather to stop the

heart shriveling while you shop.

 

The plants droop but the

hose-pipe is split, water

dripping straight to drain. The church

 

drops another few millimetres, a

thousand years of weight

telling on tight ground: gone soon to

rubble. wild flowers and weeds, the

insistent chirruping of blackbirds.

 

Vagaries

Summer warms but rarely inspires me, being

English, preferring the vagaries of weather, the

indecision of days torn between

blue, black, grey, white and their

insubordinates, bookended by

salmon split and cooked  slowly, someone’s

blood spilt, seeping, drying,

dying out into those

ochre bars which smear the

Summer Moon, under which

I sit strangely content,

oddly wanting.

Pre-Tanned Bodies

With the first hint of sun, the

girls with pre-tanned bodies

parade in as little as possible, their

tattoos looking ill-advised

long before they regret being

advertising hoardings for men already

making other plans, their names just

tags on dilapidated trains or

abandoned buildings, whilst

strutting through the streets, they

brush past un-inked people with

hearts on their sleeves and

never notice.

Hole Through Nothing

Hole Through Nothing

The tree blows a hole through
nothing with its stale breath
stinking of wrecked nests,
dead chicks,
dripping albumen.

Bulb

Bulb

The bulb is blown, leaving
shattered petals,
bare filaments, a
faint taint of ozone.

Annelida

Annelida

Clouds beget clouds, create
strange body-shapes that
won’t come to fruition, annelida that
won’t be recorded in any
terrestrial shale.

Why I Didn’t Go To Glastonbury

They played for free, the Masters, but

wanting money they

memorized the good bits,

wrote them down by candlelight,

hoped someone would pay to

play these unprompt “impromptus”,

imagine making such music with

fingers splayed on keyboard thighs whilst their

children botched them.

 

Now we get the music as intended for the

price of a packet of cigarettes or a

bottle of cheap whiskey, yet pay

ten times over to hear the

same tunes played badly on a

jukebox dumped in a damp field.

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