Monday, 27 February 2017

...Then The Skin Rises Up

Fox-gone and forested,
a pollarded promise catches
in a throat rubbed raw from crying.

Rubbed raw from trying, an antlered tinge.
The rut of regret bellows out, words worn
down to a slackness - skin hoofing bone.

A lone memory, soft in its shedding.
Hands held around a glass of cider;
cupped afternoon light, a tilt of gold.

Laughter leaked out, a sieve of intimacy
that danced with dustmotes unsettled by
the brilliance of a thrown-back head.

An astronomy book disguised as porn.
The lurid positions of a waning moon.
Constellations of contentment plotted

out properly in an orgasm of extraordinary.
Disguised among seams of stale cigarettes
streaked through spilled kisses of whisky.

The pity of strangers pattering in, like rain
to this moment - a betrayal by goosebumps.
The unexpected eclipse of, 'never again'.

Sunday, 26 February 2017

Pull out the Better Parts

Snow, the lean of castles into sunsets.
Like how an otter can be a metaphor
for the love of sisters. Don't drown.

Vinegar, a bitten lip. Darkness lit up
on the breath of an owl. Questions about 

birds, whether feathers have accents.

A boy with a knife able to slice pig throats
quicker than glasses of water photographed mid-fall.
Winter through the hills, how it winnows.

Footprints at dusk. Tiny traces of rooks.
Snowdrops in a churchyard, a bone white beauty.
The grace of subsevience, to mud.

Stolen spoons that chisel an unexpected room
inside a heart familiar with bathyspheres
and depths. Dead whales in the blood.

An estuary of everything, squelching roots.
The invasion of river rats. How the gloaming

shivers shadows to entice starlight out.

Spelks that stick in, that ache. Like love.

Cuts that kiss knees, scab over. Like love.
Clouds that collect everything. More snow.

How the weight of it births up a blizzard
in a head. How even in a watching, this thaw.

Sunday, 5 February 2017

Night Swimming

The sky is saturated.
In the next village, a girl
puts a puddle of pond in her pocket.
My heart is a goldfish dream. It leaks.

Last night as the hoarfrost left,
an owl died - not yours, thank god.
One of those born from a barn
behind the pylon of peculiarity.

The one that electrifies these fins
that wriggle underneath my skin.
The ones always swimming
and flipping, for you.

Someone's nanna once said that Elvis wasn't dead.
That the King of Rock & Roll had abandoned Graceland
for a glass bowl on a table in a kitchen with too many cups.

That he discarded his quiff for the circling, watery bliss
of back-finning through a place where sound swims slower;
hooks in deeper. Penetrates scales like buoys.

We laugh. Go home that night and fuck.
Imagine whales singing from jam jars on dusty shelves
belonging to some matronly deity adept at bread-making.

And if we eventually visit her, we'll watch 'Love Me Tender'
bubble through water that always turns cloudy on tuesdays.
And because of that slowness, how sound swims through water;

memories of long-gone fathers
crooning little things never said
or done from storm-wracked rooms
in far-out-to-sea houses where love

learns to drown inside nets of broken songs
singing from hinges of wardrobe doors
in corners full of darkness and air.
Until shoals of fish wearing skins

of little lost girls, learn how to paddle
through shadows without fear of lit fuses
reeled from fangs of dynamite monsters
that explode the soft ponds of living to pieces.