All 14 entries tagged Poem
March 28, 2008
The women bounce
on their smooth wet hocks
on the salubrious counters
of the place of ill repute.
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
and duties tied down
beneath his suit.
He sends off texts to keep his eyelids cool
and his wallet closed.
The waiting girlfriend
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
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
Striking poses in stockings
young and desirous
awkward in the straps of lingerie
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
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.
She lets you open her
like the two halves
of a nectarine,
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.
She screams out sometimes
in her sleep,
and you whisper her awake,
close to the moon of the nose
that has taken in your smell.
The sighing mouth
that sometimes smiles around
your wide heat.
She watches when your
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.
She sits by you
with the silence of tea,
from your finger dance.
The tasteable smell.
Now her throat throbs
while dual skins cool:
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
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.
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
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.
Now, my kiss can trust you.
It is the unevaluated promise:
A deep clammy dedication,
fearless of it's future.
November 26, 2007
Another boy has a head
like a peach
and drooped eyes like
an old lion
that is always displeased.
The forehead glides between shapes
of wrinkles and smiles.
Jerked like a cough with
the ruckling face.
There is always a square fingered
rubbing a tense
I wrote this for my first year mini poetry portfolio for Michael Hulse (back in the day) and found it today. I reworked it a heap as it was shockingly incoherent etc.
Biro lines, whose brains have had the
memory of who left them,
by lecturing voices.
A gooey diatribe dragging
its permanent noise
over grey coughing tiers.
Bars. Squares. Insipid light.
Bad thespians in the art of the leaves.
Autumn leaves that
You and I
smuggled into folders
full of notes -amputated- and various poems.
They are underneath our rested heads.
Tangible colour and reality
Our arms have been
by synthesis, by torpor, and we stare
and we long
for the crisp damp death of the leaf.
They shall probably dissolve, fantastical,
on contact with your amorous cheek.
Have our faces become plastic
moulded into blankness?
Is there a biro that could sketch them?
They are speaking to us
in this cocoon of phlegm, and brains.
The trees are shielded by electric hum.
The trees are curling and gone.
The journey here and skirts
Dance, eclectic, in the licking hackles
of the gorgeous air.
The wind wants its browning
It wants our books.
It asks them back to its bosom,
to blaze and to die.
Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis:
Season of mists, they say, and today,
out on a yet inviolate heath
a man and his girl stuff soil
into each others throats and clothes.
Their hands are digested by the villi of wild thorns.
Thrusting and breaking and renegotiating
into skins and the graffiti of skins.
Briefcases abandoned on the grass.
We canter up their scree slopes
with our backs to the wind.
Here is fierce, bold, a
woken snake sliding out over a man’s bare thigh.
Cold air ready to bite us off of the stoneway.
And the gorse breathes,
rising out over and under the hands.
The day printing us into the underbelly.
Crisping, here comes the night.
To the west it can be seen, slow,
closing the heads of the valleys
and the faces of the flowers.
Burn-cloud tatters of the awe setting, the orb death:
The sun sets
and over the moor we
are not watching
for a pebble that clicks.
from spoor treads
into the sharp stream
November 22, 2007
fall up onto the arms.
The sky feast
where our man makes seeds.
For our children the seeds,
and here in the vale
we spit into their mouths.
drop eyed dew pecked
Trill into the arms,
eat us up
and exhale the songs.
Rustle flit woken
into the sharp day
the little branches.The flights fall away
from the downed chests,
Dipped into air and rising,
elastic, a winged sea.
the singers of the light,
the singers of the dark.
The winged sea flooding,
drenching the gables
and bristling the fields:
Man cuts and turns the clods
and the flock floods the rows
and unsown soil.
Flights fold and expanding
under their wings.