March 28, 2008

Another Draft

The women bounce

on their smooth wet hocks

on the salubrious counters

of the place of ill repute.

Businessmen bid

for these moments of poise

gulping and baying

packed and packing memories

into their pockets,

where the notes have been

in the spaces in their liver cells

in their repertoires of banter

in their trousers

where the fabric tightens at the seams.

In amongst the crowd

a soldier glancing sideways

young

and duties tied down

beneath his suit.

He sends off texts to keep his eyelids cool

and his wallet closed.

The waiting girlfriend

dozing

reads his guilty grumbles

in the paucity of night,

shifting her imperfect limbs.

One dancer knows the soldier’s frowning eyes

comes, enticing, to the lip of her parapet

swaying always

and oiled like a gun.

It is the moment that

his warrior eyes are

resting dubious on the perfect thighs

the coiling elbows, haunch and wrists,

the pouch of her crotch.

And did his trousers tighten too?

And did the little lady know

at home?

Striking poses in stockings

young and desirous

awkward in the straps of lingerie

and pale.

Nervously eager to be naked for her love.

The noise cools

and every dawn

in the still neon pavement light

the dancers poke fags

into their mouths

and with sweat heavy vodka

and fistfuls of fivers

they clean off of their skins

the crusted eyeballs of the men.

And did she cry

that not her flanks

nor her breasts

nor her back

nor her calves

were like the ladies

that he saw?

She curls her legs

into her little chest

that lives for his custom.


January 31, 2008

A poem about an obsession: first draft

ATLAS

You cannot solve the world

and she cannot solve your thought.

The horizon hatches in you

low and dark

and her fingers up and down your spine

are as altering

as the grass heads

to the wind.

She tenses for both of you

and watches you bear the earth.

Cowed and loving,

heart gripped and furrowed.

Mute in the audience

of your frown.


A third Person Persona Poem: Parklands

Parklands

Fletch squats his fat butt down onto the

fibrulous bench

where it sways, half belched,

in the decaying park.

The children fight and play

while Fletch smokes fat Rothmans

and itches his ears

with his newspapers.

Business sheets. Thick and pink as

his hands:

Twice as useless and unstudied.

Sometimes kids swing, or point out his

slow eyes. Thighs.

Trees recoil without cannons,

the bark

crenillating and slow.

Watched. Creaked autumns and Sundays

and Mondays and spring,

buttonholing the days.

Fletch likes the park.

In his pocket, there is a ring

that his older sister

left by the stove.


Gorse Flowers

His dark hysteria and her own

retreat back to their faces, cigarettes

guzzled incongruously, and sad hands clasped.

Determinedly they kiss away their woes,

and wrap their thighs about each others thoughts.

But In the hearts, the wordless whispered loves,

she hears the seed of doubt much like her own.

Her: The coward in the face of joy.

Her love: The young backed titan with his thoughts,

too proud to fear the portent of his frown.

These blissful tear eyed lovers make their smiles.

That stone is in her heart now he has gone

too many miles to lift it out; burdened

as he is by pebbles he has found.


A Poem About Food

Seam bursting gut straining sprout chewed

tongue flapping rolling squelching cramming heaving

and the room for one more sugar chocolate mouth

hot thirsty mouth and the nauseous gut

swollen into the round.

Christmas. Sick clogged belly fare

tables clustered and jostled and heaving at the joists

hoisted laden forkfuls and crumbling turkey flesh

and skins juiced with gravy fat and oil. Herb crinkled potatoes

squishing under the knives. The goodslush and the hot mulled

slurry of kings, food falling out, spilling over the white cloth

and warm on the cold plates.


Poem in imitation of Roger Finch

It is in the dark that I find the difference

between myself, the green ink user, biro penner,

and you, who blues out thoughts in fountains, scored wet

between our thighs and scrawled on our hot backs.

Nibbed up into us the words, and their oppositions,

inter-loop: some dry and some bleeding out;

Looped sighs over the kaggy handed words.

Looped sighs bind our opposing minds

into composing flesh and sweat. In the dark

our difference condenses, smudged under the finger

tips and the mouth, and the cry words and the language

of a sobbing groin. It is in the moment, repeated, that

our sentences find one another, and we are the same

writer, with different diction. Later I scratch out your

scent, verdant, in words such as melting snow,

silver polish and moss. And the sound is mine.


Termless: A love poem employing no terms of endearment or adoration

I.

She lets you open her

like the two halves

of a nectarine,

prised,

from about it’s core.

You liked the seed:

Licked it, and kept it in your palm.

Now, without you,

she shall never be whole.

II.

She screams out sometimes

in her sleep,

and you whisper her awake,

lips

close to the moon of the nose

that has taken in your smell.

The sighing mouth

that sometimes smiles around

your wide heat.

III.

She watches when your

thoughts come

and your frowns come,

and leaves little bruises

with her teeth,

upon your arms.

You comfort her in the old fears,

and the fear

of this new requirement.

IV.

She sits by you

with the silence of tea,

still warm

from your finger dance.

The tasteable smell.

Now her throat throbs

while dual skins cool:

Shared heat

made milkily.


Poem in imitation of Douglas Dunn's 'Land Love'

The gate is warming in the morning sun

and where it holds my arms. Over the fields

I see your head limp and I kiss our son.

The still cold breeze halts. It scents his hair

Where it stirs under my lips. Thin

and warmer; You approach us, bearing pears

in your thick arms. Our child gargles at the

orchard and the softening view. You

check, pause and smile in your journey.

Bulbous fruits red-rolling your hairs, and, damp

from the tree, wetting the shirt. You

are as toughened and tall he is plumped

and smooth.

The pears are for us both and our

fences whiten in the light. Faces

turning simultaneous to him,

pinkened by the wind and by the joy.


MOTHER TONGUE

These circular words are dancing:

Carving rings into our chests.

Thoughts as brands, compassed

and encompassing the strange world,

returning, unsolved, to itself.

Scarring the irreconciled hearts.

What can one do but tremble

when the bleak ideas come,

unanswerable and cold?

One of us frowns, black eyed,

into the unknown fibres of his night.

The other twitching in her terror

of old discontinued discourse.

Of the weight of all those words

that fail, and the need

to engender them:

In the shifts of naked skins

in the reverent lipping things,

kisses, irrelevant, and sighs.

But what are these

when she cannot find the lies

to form your comfort?


December 06, 2007

..The World Is Going To End in 6 Hours..

Exercise: A three or four line poem about what you would do in the face of the certainty of your demise within the next 6 hours.

...BLUEBELLS... 

Now, my kiss can trust you.

It is the unevaluated promise:

A deep clammy dedication,

fearless of it's future.


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