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
Martin Kettle, formally of Stoneyclough but now resident of Penn Beacon, was stood on a table in the Eight Kings. He was taping the fourth corner of a large poster of Bob Dylan's face to the wall at the end of the bar. "No, no, Sam," he was saying. "It's ‘uff’, not ‘ow’. Stoneyclough." He … Continue reading The Bristol Arm.
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.
Tapping at the keyboard tiles - in the glow of the evening, pausing only for some hours; once to find inspiration in an unexpected shower and once again, to take a bath - these selected letters became these collected words; becoming a poem called steaming bao buns.
At four forty four this a.m. I broke from a curious and troublesome dream: a back yard cold hound arced from a choke, bejewelling black glass with sad bark and stream. * Struggle, the chain enchanted. But relief? Not tonight. Nor evasion. Fear defeat. The fettered dog’s howl and shackle of teeth seemed to goad … Continue reading Tonight, together, apart.
I once found a fluted glass at the foot of a door in a beautiful city where morning sunlight spilled through the Lindens like ghosts lining the streets and I whispered a name that was still unknown to me then but one day poured from your lips to my ears turned in slow motion a … Continue reading I Whispered.
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