Sunday, 25 August 2019

Famous in Mud


And life is itchy; 
skin cold. Little ball of light too far now
to split the current rubbing at 
eyes
         nose
face.                              Particles 
a Freudian puzzle criss-crossing
in the melanoma of night.

I go in blues. 

In greens. In spores 
light as breath, atoms 
fiery redbirds 
             cracking 
like wishbones.

I have not been a God

Honest 
in my impiety, nor a King
pure in my filth.  I have been cobwebs,

skirting dust
fleshy and pale,
singing chestpiece a doodlebug 
o’er tightly coiled fields of rosy cheeks and
calloused prints. 

I will not find myself here.

De-boned and perfect -
a fish scooped hollow,  just
two pupils 
blooming in the milky white bowls I licked clean,
unwilling voyeur 
of the final choking quietus.

If I am to be found,
it’ll be deep.

Deep
in the tall marble hills of eloping sunsets;
Where the colours sit heavy on Babylonian pylons 
and the pig-headed people folk 
smear marmalade on their fingers 
to catch fireflies at dusk. 

It’ll be high 

High
in the tooth-shaped clouds; 
Where dragonflies are mere graffiti stains
aerosoled on wind 
and the white noise perma-coats the icy ghosts
I spilt my mind for. 

If I am to be found, it’ll be in snow,
in grit,

in rain juiced from morn
and broken 
                     on lips parted like bread, 
tongue drawn in wait for the final 
almighty Right - 
that weighty promise and 
indignant birth chime that 

all

will be famous in mud. 














__________________________________________

Somewhat overdue annual poem (2 and half years so... oops)

Sunday, 8 January 2017

A Lesson in Melittology (or Tea with Plath)


















“You always made the best tea”, I confess. 
Something in the method: fanning the bag 
In the cathartic lung space ‘tween spoon and china. 

“you’re too new” she mocks, “too shiny”,
Indisposed in her sketchbook, tracing the tentacled yew tree
Down to its most primitive honesty: its brutal 
Old-man nakedness
and child-bearing insect chambers

Then down further still to where its bony roots gift hair to  
The all-seeing Undermoon-

          “What of the Undermoon?” I start,
“Off topic”
          “and the yew tree?”
“salvation” 
          “and red?”
“humanity.”

          “Then what of sentience? Of masturbation?
                        Of the lions we left to nurse the newborns?”
“How round their heads would look in crowning jaw”. 

We bake, as usual,
Outwards -> in like Grandma did, 
though our cookies are never so sweet.

“I don’t like eyes”, she offers after a pause.

“I have too many windows you see,
Too many stalls. Peepholes.
Too many cracks and crevices they can crawl into 
Like after-9 anti-gentlemen
Hunting the Blood Egg.

O eyes, eyes, eyes,
Hooking to me like pollen to the pelt of the fattest, 
Most barren honeybee.”

          “But what of the faces? The sockets they alight?”
“They would have me a table-top tragedian!
A pocket-sized Rasputin wound up to dance my

Ends again and again, a quavering filament 
afire 
afire 
afire. 

O would you not just unplug it all? 
Break from that wheezing old Undermoon?
What has it offered you anyways?

For I have known the pain of sunrise, 
How it soars like a fist - 
A swift influenza 
Blistering the grassy worms that wriggle like
Fingers on my summertide lawn. 

O tell me, would you not just unplug it all?
Detach from the great milky umbilical 
That holds us all distinct? 

They do not see, they just do not 
See!
Poetry is no gift to beauty,
It is an amputation. 

It is a funeral.
A grey hair. A gold tooth. A black leaf. A freckle.
It is a death 
of part."

“You do not see”, she smiles.
“you just do not see.

You’re too new.

Still just

Too 
shiny”.


Wednesday, 23 December 2015

On Regimented Nihilism and Stockholm Syndrome



i. 
The flowers are not welcome.
They are tuneless and crass, a greasy regiment
Of soil-fed priests cutting deals with vagrants
In their subterranean Duchy of undying Narcissi 
And blood-metal towers.  

They are headaches; 
Tiny robots of precision, 
Their sharp anvil teeth relentlessly grinding sun as sky-shy
Invertebrates bathe indecently in the thick oil
Of their ancestors 
Coagulating clot-like in the straw-drawn rivers
Snaking around this Demi-kingdom of half-dead cigarette butts. 

(I will not read the suicide notes they leave on the snowy cobbles, 
I will not.)

ii. 
They are of the Oldworld, prejudiced by their pedigree 
And disfigured by their resolute nihilism. They care not for sentiment
Or blithe being, yet they are ubiquitous!
A rotating sorority of predatory nurses cloaked in the
Redundant asymmetry of their own spoon-fed asexuality. 

(They ate all of the pigeons... they won’t come back.)

They have split my garden, 
Ripped it blindly into a colour-coded 
Regime of repetition, the leafy giants lassoing bees
Like furry humming balloons as laboured ants are held to order
Along the cracked checkpoints of inertia. 
They are everywhere: a shoal of anaemic anaesthetists 
Rooted in the waters of my subdued cognition, 
But I will not join them!  

iii.
I will not be that flower!
That sickle-spined orphan of communism, 
Shuffling heavy-leafed 
Into a personal apocalypse of howling morality. 

I will not be that flower, 
That rip-roaring shadow of light-stem 
And endless eyes, 

But I’d be the happiest prisoner...
Swapping spit with Moscow as Father rapes the winterlands
And the neighbours’ kids clap like geese 
With fat livers.
Yes, I’d be the most obliging prisoner, 
A downtrodden god with a dirty face
Knee-deep in reality and awash with the stains 
Of a pre-war dystopia. 

Oh, I’d be the most forgiving prisoner,
Breaking my wrists at the Altar of Weeds and
Content to accept the inevitable singularity 
Of existence,

But I will not be that flower. 

I will not.

I will not!

Sunday, 18 May 2014

The Haste of Yellow














Summer took the first bite.
I recline, a bruised mushroom
Peeling shamelessly in this musty kiln 
Of faceless wasps. I threaten to explode.
To inflate to the size of a Roman God, all red-eyed
With the sale of Pompeii; but the bite was non-committal,
So I retreat. 

Again.

Only half-awake 
As It bloats recklessly along the suburban midriff, 
Arms clouding a malarial sun that buzzes with the epileptic frenzy
Of a light-drunk cicada. 

It’s always been like this, 
Us sitting eye to eye, 
As ugly as the other and skinless in a souring garden
Where the day is a butterfly-eater
And August is a hallucinogenic rash
That paws at the inchoate peace we've built
On dust caught out by prying sun-threads. 

We have a difference of opinion you see;
I wear my religion like a hand-plucked sheepskin, 
While it prefers to keep its in a loose jar that tolls
On the hour. We’ve come to an agreement of sorts... now.
But I dare not sleep, for once a year Winter feeds 
Its securities into the mouth of this obese child of heat
And it once again dips its toes into the unchartered waters of 
Our contested sovereignty. 

One simply cannot underestimate the haste of Yellow.
See how it stalks the scrawny tide-turners as they drag
Their little pieces of sea across the land. 
See how it disorientates the lowly fireflies as they impersonate stars 
Around old whisky bottles. And see how it scratches
At my nuclear skyline of half-eaten curtains 
And vacant window-lickers. 

This will not do, this flailing treaty of disarmament.

I will raise an army - exonerate the dissidents, and mobilise 
The curious little bone colonies that live like overfed lichen,
Gnawing on the shallow warmth of 
A noxious rockery. Have you heard them? 
That despondent rustle of 
rock         upon         rock 
In earthy mimicry. They know too well the 
Realities of a world where you learn to cry
Before you talk.

Then we will rally, 
A chain-smoking march of the Empties, 
Arm in arm and sewn together as we scale the shoulder-blades
Of a foreign mountain and take Summer while it sleeps. 

And then I will turn on them
Where all can see
And gobble them up 
one 
by 
one.

For this is a one thing.
We are a one thing. It is I, and I alone 
Who will raise this kingdom of white noise
And compulsory sedation. Who will reinstate a monopoly of grey
And paint a night that cloys like toffee.
For grey sets the scene for a most panoptic introspection, 
And I’m afraid our displacement is far more guaranteed than I’d hoped.