Something Terrestrial

No, I don't believe in god.

I lie in Southend at the birth

of the bridge which falls short,

watching the planes scratch

the blue coffin lid and I spell

their fearful tartan with my eyes.

Blades tickle the nape of my neck

and daisies tremble at my feet

and my hands and my ears.

Salty words blow sickly notes

in my nose and I lament.

He knows where I am.

Blisters

Do you remember

breathing against the wind

while the pedals

and cogs grabbed

the chewed hems of the jeans

you will grow into

beneath the blistered

leather saddle at full mast

that you will not

and on your palm

the blisters that will grow

from twisting

a stubborn throttle

which only meant you had

to pedal faster

until the jeans

became involved in the bike

and the gravel

chewed your knee

which was fresh peppered

with road stones

and framed

in a snug denim hole

is now that scar?

Grater

Creamy yellow hairs
but thicker burst
through, down a cold metal plate.


Faster, longer strokes
and harder I push 
into the small bladed teeth. I don't stop


when the yellow frames
a red ripple, fleshy 
curds and the way warm bone feels 


when it screams quietly
on that cold metal
and I don't stop, with a warm smile.

Cabernet Conversations

I was not involved in this one, 

merely an observer. I watched

from across the table. My vision obscured

by the guests and glasses, 

the dog raised in toast ‒ 

her smile was silent, 

she sat beneath a coloured hat, 

somehow abovethe smiles and conversation.

The stage is set.

She has waited on this moment ‒ 

her execution composed. Perfect.

Under his words 

her skin drains of all colour, 

the jaw drops, the face

begins to crack apart ‒ 

He takes another drink

cordially

she puts down the dog.

The Luncheon of the Boating Party - Pierre-Auguste Renoir

 

The Taste of Smoke

Copper salivating

and the Georgian Dragon on Foulness

black pepper uncracked

roaring whispers 

telling the cold lie of fire, remorselessly

hot not warm

burnt coffee

freeze dried and dry spice searing

on parsley bark

biting on a wood

of spruce and the empty half dinghy

in musken marshes

on Foulness island -

salivating like I've pennies in my mouth -

in a stale cloud.

Scarlet

This is the voice of the Mysterons echoed unbroken in your hands from two Polos, from wilted foil from Dad's waxed-cotton pocket, on the tablescape small fingers pushed slow Polo spirals. A child baring the pride of plastic epaulettes which flashed in your mind. Young muscles tensed as circles neared Blue Peter Tracy Island from another world that you will save to be saved again tomorrow.