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
Jackdaws and witches tapping watches, stripping you to the bone. Some still can't say your name without stretching all the wrong vowels. I hear your voice, I'm ankle-deep in Bluebells. My red penknife unfolds. I'm scratching your initials. * Trap-doors every Monday morning. Cornflowers, my boots are soiled. The great birds, they are clapping the … Continue reading Jackdaws & Witches #dVerse #poetry
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.
The thinner spectre of the two, pale, serene and half in shadow, from the creases of the curtain, floats a plaintive lullaby - her song for sleepless children. "This plastic fort for painted cowboys. This tepee for a brave. This mountain range of books to read - ['The Kid took the reins and the … Continue reading Her Song For Sleepless Children.
Last night, they sang hymns in Kiev; this morning, they sandbag the malls. Saturday, schoolboys with rifles. Sunday, late shoppers man the walls. The sky burns bright - pale blue to blush to red - obliterates the stars. Commuters, to the metro rush; but no buses, no trains, no cars... come, unfriendly bombs, rain fire … Continue reading They Sang Hymns
She'll claim it to be a tune, but this just cannot be true. Ono coughing on a spoon in a bat cave, with the flu.
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