All 4 entries tagged Poem

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November 22, 2007

Dream Poetry– The Grandson's Paintbrush

This is my effort from the excellent Zoe Brigley seminar as it stands thus far:

The Grandson's Paintbrush

In the oil.

The Painted Lady folds open her face,

pulling her little body up

up the chimpanzee chest.

She is

stomached naked on

the child carpet.

The toy farm floods

with the let out wombstuffs.

A plastic Hereford gathers up

the fluid

in its chew holes.

I am painted in the act.

Kate will clutch

the jack russel pup

into herself.

On the back of the cardigan

the post-coital butterfly

rolls up its tongue

and drops it's wings.

November 19, 2007

Another Brief Essay on Madness


Have you never wanted to soak a novel in your blood.

A thick red wet cube,

written across the top in black.

If you kissed it your lips would be red.

When it dries it will crinkle and smell

old like the oldness of your veins,

and be more of a relic to you than the Byron open on your desk

or the poems you write that no-one understands.

With faith and feelings naked as her form,

She stood and stands a rainbow in the storm…

A thick red wet cube.

The library shakes in the storm.

The library has more books than a man has blood, and that

is why man must go insane.

Observe that girl, she was a painter once,

but now she bites her nails and is too weary of life to read.

Books frighten her fingers into scrawling over their


Why do they ask her to read?

Why do they ask her to write?

A poem from a while ago


Cider masquerading as cider and the

Yeah Yeah Yeahs

sliding over a wasteland into the night light laptop


The rhythmic ticking of his watch

like the sound in the evenings of my father's heart.

Today someone bandied the philosophy of aesthetics

and I fell in love with a rose

on the way to my bed.

That other day I wept coyly and

shyly right into my belly

right into your face

at the way your mouth moved. Instead.

Floated sestinas. Death cab driving

me to nowhere on the thin edge of a taste

of alcohol.

I prise six words with my mouth:

Vomit them out.


Friendly phone calls light and carefree

as bubble bath popping on diaphanous thighs

and slow long arms

that will never be shaped like tradition.


Writers write. Retch reflex.

Reflected mascara gobbed down my red face.

Why have you been crying?

Because I have been eating and

when my heads upside down the rain falls out.

Why have you been Because I don’t move like

them and I wont feel like them in

His arms.

I think sometimes he forgets.

And I cannot and I cannot and I cannot.

Dowdy clouds make the rain fall out-

Swollen up thunder without syllables.

Shower curtains. Plucking my eyebrows. Cutting a pose.

Cutting my fringe. Bath. Morose moustache.

Shit floats. Bloat. Boat.

There could be a eulogy in all of this

If only there wasn’t a poem.

Some people are better;

Some people are not as tall.

Nanny kissed my rows of infant toes.

They fuck themselves up in the virgin cunts of

shoes who wont hurt like me in the morning.

Heels. Tesco leather having its chest


in club dirt.

Oh don’t you oh don’t you

ever feel freaky? Ever feel a freak?

Oh don’t you dare decide to feel what failure’s like.


Wee Loo, Eheu

Taste the varnish of a polo cane.

Soil dehydrating, dust.

Henceforth I shall be wary

and let you be my downfall only on days

destined regardless

to end like this.

Mug bruised by paint

with chrysanthemums, quaffing

acrylic water. Mauve.

It hurts and they shall die:

I guess that has always been it.

Have you ever wanted something so much you

forgot about it?

Don’t you dare be my paragon

for I shall never be mine. Paradisiacal.

Paroxysm. Paramour. Paralytic.

Ephemeral words masking taped to a magnolia

bower nothing but

that weight of eyelids on lower eyelids.

She hid in the beauty of a thin child

who enthuses like no one sees.

Who can be the red wood Windsor chair

on its side? White corridor, yellow

autumn leaves that curl up when someone pins them

to a notice board with assignations, four by six shiny

relics of drinking prowess,

Sir Percy, car tax.

Back in the space of current days

and I realise that this

was just another love poem

to you

softened by exhaustion

and the emollient of raw ridiculousness.

Raw fish pink as foreskin.


Concision. I incise shit from

shit and sit and sit and recline

constant as streetlamps and friends saying ‘lol’,

Snakebite, Hell, he’ll never look at you that way

they say

and so does Joni Mitchell

and so does

and so does

and does

The point is today is just two bodies that

might have our faces

making love on Kestor in the rain.

Put one pebble on top of one stone.


An amorous engagement to a rose

curling and passing

past all comprehension.

Petals. A something. A small


Home–grown poetry


Late summer,

though the summer was not much.

There is a squirrel in the shaded garden.

At the top edge of the land

neighbouring horses

crunch in the copse arms.

The white tan dog bounds

over the disordered grass

that is swallowing up the rabbits

and the gates.

Here she stamps,

following behind with a novel in her hand

and the slow steps of a town bred farmer

with stock to check.

Clobby droppings of the brock,

those illadvised blackberries

seeding his latrines.

The smell of bog and bracken,

foxes and ferns.

In the scrub quiet it beats fast

of a low hart

and her terrified blood.

Pigeons shiver into a warm sky.

Streamflies fat in the estate pats.

Grass like rivers,

too thick to solve,

pours over everything.

I am but what I am none cares nor knows

the trees sigh and repeat those woes

all those rows of roots

and disintegrating leaves.

The terrier finds out the


in their shaded bunker of dust.

In the skinny bushes

they blink at insects:

boulders of folded knees and

chewing cheeks.

She picks the thorns out of her legs

while she is stooped

to look in every sleepy brown eye

for the white harbingers of blindness.

The novel swells through touch;

The brambles surge.

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  • Charlie! you filthy filthy girl! Still, all this is very amazing. well done :) didn't see you over e… by Adam on this entry
  • Much as I like the ryhthm, I think perhaps it would work better with breif gasps of chaos breaking o… by on this entry
  • Devon, and theres nothing out there but a hurricane….I agree that the last line does 'let go' and … by charlie jones on this entry
  • Hey, Charles. In the best 'you–comment–on–my–poem–I'll–comment–on–yours' tradition, I noticed you'd … by on this entry
  • Really loved the last four lines; I thought they built fantastically. Was the line–break difference … by on this entry

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