5/4

Here’s a wonder –

boys, practised

in playground

battles & the cruellest

violence

regard Gods-

kings of all life

& violence

reduced to a twist

of mouth

and muscle –

to a grotesque

parody of power

a punchline

in the bonding

of boys hellbent

on war

meanwhile

the dog

muzzled,

mightier in heart-

space

& loyal friendship

slows, lowers

passes the scene

without speaking

at all

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4/4

once like:

girl child // potbellied

her nimbus eyes sudden

as moonlight// she clamours

over sandbanks to

the tireless sea

or

a curl of cat // sun stretched

drunk on terracotta tiles

she turns // sundial darling

to the beckoning finger

of the sun

either way

deep warmed // gin

soaked // atop a mattress

giddy with the skin flush

of laughter // kisses //

the taste of you

fresh

3/4

They wish for a long starless

night. New moon. Slow cloud.

A thin single bed. A mix tape –

radio recorded, adverts redacted,

just old jams;

The Dumb Steroids.

Flightless Fish.

The one time hits

from Juniper Pearls

& The Sad Sad Trumpets.

2/4

I fell in love

with the torture

of your abstract shapes

& patterns, your stubborn

dry heat bleaching

driftwood into bone

the tattoos of your harbour lights

are blossom at the darkness

your weather settles viscously,

a silence light as frost

1/4

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then I found a dark spot
away from the tiger stripes
of light piercing the street

& practiced the art
of becoming a stranger
in a country of strangers

slipping a stranger’s
tongue through
the soft shell of my mouth

bring back
my Mother
bring back

the lazy language
learnt long before
I needed it not

at all

 

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30:04:17

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Today we’re at the end :^(. Pretty sad for this year to be over, but pleased I’ve tried a new form (Haibun) for the last day

 

Darling, give in. No matter how we look at this it will always be a battered pigs ear, the drum of it humming, the sole freckle lonely and missing the lip to own it. Nothing is intact, least of all what I have to say. We know the seasons. Wore the carpet thin with them like track marks, except we do not brake into the skid. We speed up; sliding to revive the collision over and over. I can’t imagine this any other way. How many moons have passed. How many new stars birthed in apathy. Still the skin remains untouched. Still the morning blooms malnourished and wary, ever silver in its watered light. There are two types of distance and we dabble in both. Stranger/Lover. Inside you something beats as it does in me but even for this we cannot branch out of repetition, even for the weakness of sex that longs to be sung to. There are no happy breaths. There are no midnight endings pulsed in the pocket of each other. Nothing to get swollen about at all.

everything circles;
this is the nature of things
we must not forget.

 

Picture credit: From Fear Eats the Soul 

 

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29:04:17

 

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Today’s prompt  was to pick a concrete noun from a favourite poem, free write from it and then turn it into a poem. This is half-way there.

 

danced and hot bodied
gladly ripped apart

and chased out into the ice frosted car
with its tobacconist smell    its pullover
pouch warm & leather smoke smell
The long white speech of the road snake
hipped before us       We wait
for the dark windows to melt
Kiss as the engine sprung over

Then the coast road rushing
& speed like hunger   open mouthed
& gushing  down we went   down
through the cold wind splaying the backs
of still jealous houses     windows turning back
only the view of ourselves and the 3am sky
dazzling   for a second    dazzling
& burning under the headlights’
golden eye

You were laughing
My hands were patterned
at the wheel
& Then the stern sound of spinning
& Fur    Like a spark catching flame
Fur    Like a fireball shot low
to the surface     broiling in the dazzling
golden eye

The fox somehow    homely
on the cold morning road
blistering heavy & patient
breath up into the night      The fox
in the headlights  steady eyed in a curl
of black halos
-the swoop of them bitten
from the frost covered road
by tyres that were almost   almost   Just quite.

 

 

I chose the noun ‘fur’ from Adrienne Rich’s Fox: a wonderful go-to poem.

Picture credit: Pinterest

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