1. I will remember. A rhyme yet to come. All is rhythm. Horn and drum. It was autumn. I will remember. 2. A rhyme yet to come. Glance her mirror. All is beauty. Glimpse and glimmer. It was November. A rhyme yet to come. 3. All is rhythm. Six bells chime. All is hum. Her … Continue reading Her Hymn In Waltz Time.
After making love, we drove around the greatest city in the world (for access to the Lakes). You pointed out the citadel and cathedral, painted childhood haunts as gold, wove passages that, on your lips, appointed saints with majesty.
Z A beak of sleep, painted crudely on a tank, becomes tainted, reflected, a skewed boot, forever glancing off a surface; destructive and distasteful as O’Brien suggested. V Peace, askance, becomes a spade; a blade to dig a grave with; a tricky proposition in any city street. The school of matter over mind: predictive. Letters … Continue reading Face/Value
Many thanks to Lori and the editorial team at Gleam: Journal of the Cadralor for deciding to publish my Cadralor in their latest issue (iv). The form is relatively new to me and appealed at once because of its visual qualities. There is a filmic sense to Cadralor poetry that fits well with the way … Continue reading Stippling. #Gleam – Journal of The Cadralor.
I took my pen from a pocket and, for no reason that I could comprehend, blacked out several letters in the headings and, with not a notion of Situationist or cut-up theory, but with an urgent and divine energy, The School Speech became he Scho peech, which, in turn, instinctively, could not become anything but … Continue reading hescho peech
The dogs, marking sand with brief print, ancient scratch-language, lengthen and, boundless, plunge at the cones of surf, smashing them, barking. * A lone figure travails the blown beach. He drags a suitcase. He looks up from his feet and seems surprised to find another living here and, as we pass, I see that the … Continue reading The Empty Benches.
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