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I Am Why Your Ghost No Longer Speaks
from Gebo, 2021 Your ghost walks by my side chills iron bars to keep me waking we navigate the paving slab’s follicles where trees protrude and clutter The Gray Man’s face with green wise to the woes of Orpheus the pallid words of his poem we do not turn; will not turn cut a finger off to make a compass whittle down the failed flesh let it spin, let it spin This is the street where bombs fell in perfect iambic pentameter da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM I am coarse like shrapnel lodged in the sod I am why the trees wish to escape abnormal invading presence I am why your ghost no longer speaks staves of an unfinished song tied in knots syncopated rhythms and a cosmic reunion Take comfort in faith as a companion not in an unmade godhead but in the all-seeing eye holy ward — I am waiting until swallowed by the sallow tears of the heavens hand in hand with a deadened dream Do You Look at the Moon When I Look at the Moon?
from Gebo, 2021 A slave to the incandescent eye of fate cast over my body examining each line to draw conclusions that the grandeur of a gilded heart can be dwarfed by existential silence penetrates every droplet of the soaked clouds star-walking choirs pool and chorus their hymn books written in Hebrew when none of them read Hebrew Every page stuck to the one before it turning a corner in the story forces the slab of words to crush and press weak fingers error is, error is marginal intent unknown a country waiting to be discovered when nobody wants it discovered Remain distant, let your mewling echo into a stiff chamber of rib bones wrapping around a diamond rought, cut from the flesh of a grounded angel fallen from the side of the divine, fallen Do you look at The Moon when I look at The Moon? Apocalypse
from Gebo, 2021 Drawn curtains fasten their threads together never to open again the pattern does not complete if not aligned each chink or fold leaning into the other Sun’s eyes flutter to brighten the roads better than a lick of paint better than licking a battery these jolts will restart the traffic if only they can navigate the pot holes and speed bumps via alternate routes This must be what summer feels like And great star, named and unnamed capturing gaze yet the cornea do not burn like they told every froglet instilled in the pond distilled in the factories live it — eat it — pray it — believe it (you better not believe it) this scorching sun sitting in the sky’s thoughts staring down, near enough to give life to a clump of rock this sun, inventing time by parking its arse-cheeks on the ground split pantyhose generate a shadow around revealed flesh Seasons of comfort are in session Goldilocks declares on the street corners of The Republic of Poetry — how it is just right The shy trees are no more — they yell jokes from a cannibalistic book made of their skin each punchline lands an honest mark on the face Somewhere, a statue of a lion whimpers with its thorn-laced paw soothed by the tender talons of a bird of prey — pluck the stick fuck the splinters pluck the crone from the maiden’s head as winds tighten, and tease your throat Twin bridges slumped on the River Tamar filled with silent excuses to bolt their cables into a patch of concrete suspend disbelief that the inanimate can pass for being human tread with caution for a high volume of gendered vehicles pass this way hands from the river claw onto the bank with Mother Tenacity’s affirming grip the body of Babylon scooped up in a length of ribbon dried in a bath towel kissed on the forehead and sung to sleep ‘my bonny lies over a notion…’ where fresh bed sheets touch static against spines a taste of seasonal freedom cruel as the taste of Midsummer Day’s goodnight sleep tight, for now until the turning Distant suns replace the glow of proximity blinking messages through the blackness into Morpheus’s shorthand typed into dark wanderings which countdown to a wake that breaks the mourning seductive dreams coloured in crayon until heat melts the wax sends a hard vibration through mortal pages punctuated by prophecy — the end of all days sat apart blurry are the smiles this is the mask that hides the face of the spectre of things to be sung O GREAT REVELATION! John the Apostle John the Beatle Yer Blues blasts loud into the ear a meeting is scheduled in the living rooms of each depredated domicile dissemination will dictate the insemination of The Saviour or the dragon that fell from a city in the clouds and then silence And then more silence The voiceless assemble in under an hour — rapid response this is it folks the moment THE END OF ALL DAYS HAS COME! Bled realities flatline — leylines narrow every channel dried-up and void The freaks shall inherit the Sun Demand it ends its exercise routine no-more will it rise to offer high-fives to drifting angelic forms no-more will it be eaten by the groves in their grooves as they spin The Sun pricks its finger and sleeps one thousand years cries a thousand more tears which evaporate every millisecond on the burning surface of corruption Floods eventually consume soils a sphere sits on the shoulder of a giant as it trudges through fresh formed swamps the pebble stones of the pavement beat with a time-signature of 4/4 with lots of ghost notes scattered Hovering on the edge of their seats the gods look down chortle and choke it is hard to swallow what remains is a wasteland And the only hope of ascension lies in the footnotes of an unwritten poem a poem worth dying for. Looking For Jeremy Corbyn On The
18.26 Great Western Railway Train From Penzance to London Paddington. from Prima Materia, 2018 Looking for Jeremy Corbyn on the 18.26 Great Western Railway train from Penzance to London Paddington calling at St Austell, Par, Bodmin Parkway Liskeard, Plymouth, Newton Abbot Exeter St Davids, Taunton, Bristol Temple Meads Bath Spa Reading and London Paddington Eyes right to see conductor’s buttocks framed in a green coat he’s asking for tickets he’s asking a man for his ticket “Excuse me.” The man has lids shut and is resting his chin loosely on his collar “Old fella!” “Excuse me.” Shit, he’s dead Shit, he’s fucking dead “Excuse me mate!” A stir, a gasp fish on a frying pan he stares at me with my pupils I communicate “I’m not Jeremy Corbyn. Have you seen him? I know he likes trains.” But the man just stares then fumbles for his ticket I now set regular vibrating alarms using my wrist watch I set them to stop me from falling asleep dead Eyes forward to see two pink bobbles atop another bobble who is taking photos she snaps snap — snap — snap she snaps a picture of not a pout or pose but a porous expression leaking out how grim life is she texts the picture asking the soon to be recipient ‘Will you be my boyfriend?’ She is not Jeremy Corbyn (the girl taking serious selfies) her soon to be boyfriend isn’t Jeremy Corbyn either Eyes down to see a pair of swirly, whirly red patterned boots having a conversation with two scraps of tangerine peel Their owner is holding Tony Blair’s face in her lap stroking his thin, page-boy hair typing love letters to him on her Macbook, making an eHarmony profile to cleverly seduce Tony Blair She has his face in her lap but she wants more New Labour to be Nude Labour saucy Tony Blair and his kinky wink he’s got those winky eyes even on matted paper even after photoshop He looks at me through the gap in the chairs and he uses his winky eyes to ask me “Have you seen Jeremy Corbyn? He uses trains and I thought, maybe he might be on here using this train, it’s just he won’t return my calls...” I blink back “No, I haven’t seen him but if I do I’ll point him in the direction of your face.” After watching the vacant seats fail to manifest Jeremy Corbyn I decide to give up my search Who am I anyway? Just a lowly pagan in a black tie coming back from a funeral What would I do if I actually saw him on the train? The same thing I did with Phil Jupitus at Jersey Zoo? Point and say his name “You’re Phil Jupitus.” “You’re Jeremy Corbyn.” I imagine he would say more than Phil Jupitus maybe he’d point back and say “Hey, aren’t you that pagan wearing a black tie, coming back from a funeral?” I’d probably stare a fish in a frying pan and somehow tumble out “Tony Blair’s face is over there and he wants a word with you.” Fleeting
from Prima Materia, 2018 These pasty arms made of plaster hold the imprint of your tiny body shrivelled little thing The hands remember the feel of rubber — a ball of elastic bands folding into lumps Your vernix coat, moisturiser with a water-base, it washes away but my mind refuses to clean the memory with a towel Could I make buds of it, scented and stuff them up my nose to block out the dreaded aroma of roses? Gazing into pools of dribble cobalt cries that scratch the marrowbone clear out Hollow bones for rattles shredded nerves in place of peas or dried rice There is a nagging feeling that soon, crow’s feet will not be the only pattering, and learning to fly will shortly follow I’ll watch you float amongst the stars Selene in orbit with Leo stalking close behind Naked
from Prima Materia, 2018 When I strip my clothes off they become possessed — not air a figure forms, the buttons eye me and pass judgment Milky blues squint to decide fate Could my hair be unravelled as a cotton wheel, loose from my mother’s wicker basket? The sleeves go flat to break my back slams, orders community service They made a teacher out of me by dyeing pound coins red and slapping me in the face with a fake, rolled up degree Congratulations Mrs Boulton, it’s a civil servant The stitching in the shin of my jeans reads through my CV makes suggestions and labels my measurements with bullet points — sharp as poppers on a fly I try, but the wigs and whips lacerate flesh until steam escapes and fades my body Hard times breaking rocks with your skull — repeating the same questions with only doubt ever bothering to reply If God were real, I imagine him to be sat on the toilet crushing silverfish under his shoes As I strip bare I see marks on my arms old scars and contours I am unfamiliar with them For the first time I know how many chest hairs I have I know their names; meet all of their kids I scold the material, now I am judge Being naked, you feel the cold more squirm at heat you know what pigment is hiding beneath how different it is to the colouring and freckles others see |
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