Hearts

My heart goes out to hearts

caught in branches on a cold night;

caught waiting on a

street corner for a

car that won’t come; caught

watching the ice melt in a

bought drink that will

never be drunk; caught between

transplants not knowing which

soul to beat for; caught

hoping, caught dreaming;

caught in the act of

catching cold.

Utopia

Twin helicopters hover

over the demo but

other than that it’s the

same demo their

predecessors flocked to,

demanding utopia,

conveniently forgetting

all those they entombed in the

wrong utopia.

The Canonical Hours of a Working Man

Matins

In the ghost world the

ghost girl dances her

ghost whirls enlacing me in

veils so seductive I

sometimes pray the

dawn won’t come.

 

Lauds

But dawn does come with the

prayer my feet will

find the floor and that the

floor will bear my weight so I

will not start the day

flat on my face.

 

Prime

If there is a God it is coffee-coloured,

coffee-flavoured, dark-roasted,

perking like heavy breathing, its

consort sizzling in the pan, the

toaster popping its prize with a

sigh like a prayer.

 

Tierce

In the mad rush of the studio I

see something, take my chance,

get the set rebuilt and

knowing it will take time

slip out to light my

prayer to creativity.

 

Sext

Shall I make this poem a pun on Sex? But

lunch is when I have a moment to

lust over those who, at work,

I respect, would never dishonour, but

at quiet times imagine

undressed, themselves lustful.

 

 

None

Mid-afternoon is a sigh—no, a

yawn into the vast face of the work we’ve

chiselled all day into something we

pray is vaguely human, vaguely

real, vaguely worth all that

spent time to achieve.

 

Vespers

Outside the lamps are lit just as we

switch ours off and head away home

praying all is well with those

work has cut us off from, lit

phone-screens in the car-park evidence of

love, concern and care.

 

Compline

Fed and watered—ok, wined!—I

wend my way to my hotel, call home,

check the news, reply to emails,

clean myself, resign myself to bed

praying the ghost girl will still be

whirling in her ghost world.

Salted

footprints2

The snow recuses itself from the grass, but

retains my sole, though my

thoughts are salted with

such impurities the snow

should surely melt.

Necklace

Your neck, dear Lady,

deserves a poem but

can I find enough

fine words to

thread a necklace to

hold throughout the day and

not chafe? Or will

one word or another

prickle, my poem

tossed in a tray

with the rest of your

discarded finery?

Fog/Frost

fog_frost

The garden at night folds into the

fog rolling in whilst beneath it the

frost works its wonders

refiguring the bench-cover into a

carapace for some

movie monster and

freezing each dewdrop into

enough jewels to encrust

Orion’s ice-taut belt.

Just Words

Kind words sink silently into the

memory-sponge of the walls but

harsh words carom around the house

forever, their cockroach-carapaces

impossible to crack.

The Band Room, Pinewood

In the shadow of the gargantuan stages,

I worked in one of those

fathomless spaces which seem to

sum up time and

seam it in its walls: where

big bands rehearsed for

big musicals; dancers

warmed up at now-rusty barres;

where the mechanics of my business exhausted

enthusiasm, energy, blood; where

despair sometimes stuck you to its

sweat-stained, tight-beamed floor; where

once an unknown man

hung himself from one of its

high substantial stanchions;

where now is the home of the

nostalgia of Science Fiction; where

sturdy security guards shiver on their

late rounds when the

memories drift down

like dust.

Moonlife

I

New Moon

rocks in its cradle

blissfully unaware.

 

II

Young Moon bashfully hides behind

curtains of cloud, scared by

all those eyes turned on her.

 

III

Half Moon, half adult,

half kid, uncertain,

slutty, defiant.

 

IV

Gibbous Moon, sure she’s pregnant,

remembers no father or parents to be

mad, determined to go to term.

 

V

Full Moon doesn’t give a shit, splashes her

cash about the sky, free of any

doubt or shame.

 

VI

Gibbous Moon bemoans her

mommy-belly, is wistful and wonders if

there’s a gym nearby.

 

VII

Half Moon has a terminator to die for but

worries something else is

eating her inside.

 

 

VIII

Old Moon looks at what’s left, remembers

reaching out a lazy foot to

rock a baby.

 

IX

No Moon gives the stars once,

and once only,

free rein.

 

X

New Moon

rocks in its cradle,

blissfully

unaware.

Remainia

I dreamt I had to leave you alone in Remainia

without a passport but you insisted you could

still slip back in, claim benefits,

beg in the streets if necessary, and if the

police tried to deport you—well

Remainia doesn’t exist

does it?

Natalie Breuer

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