All entries for Thursday 15 October 2009

October 15, 2009

Archive number EIGHT

I like this poem of mine...The picture is 'Antigona' by Alexei Golovin.


The water was dry.
She’d extinguished the flowers.

Orchids littered her
Linoleum  floors.

Soaked into their petals was
The funeral,

More time that could be clogged
In the Hoover.

They look like broken hearts
Strewn all around her;

She didn’t understand

The dust can no longer be drowned,
It just settles, waiting.

She can’t know

She hadn’t lost anything
But another face

Morphing into the past,
Overreaching fragrant memories.

She can hear the petals crunching
Under her polished black heels,

But she knows that she can’t
Smell them anymore.

She grazes the lock on the door
With her abdomen.

The coldness of the steel
startles her solemnity

Is it love?
Is this love?

Archive number SEVEN

So, I wrote this after feeling uninspired by the Fairy Queen. This is my...reimagining of some events. Initially this was illustrated with a crude picture of a knight. I know that it's not even customary around these parts to incorporate art with literature...but after struggling to think for a while I remembered this painting by Paris Bordone (titled 'Nymph and Hunter') which I hope should compliment the poem. OH HOW...I frustrate myself sometimes.

nymph and hunter

The Fair Queen

Guyon stared at the woman
with contention. He wanted
nothing more than bliss.
A blower, a lover, a threat.

She stole his blank shield
way back, when they were
still fucking, and cunted
all over it. Smegma’d to shit.

Her beloved was stoic. Some sod
stood sick. She swallowed (for him)
some stunning shock.
So much the slut, the lust,

That lame excuse for destruction
of the lack in enigmatic discussion:
Sinking, sucking, striking
that hellish, hawking hole.

Blowing, loving, threatening;
bliss is more than nothing.
He wanted the contention.
Guyon stared at the woman.

Archive number SIX

Yes! Yet another poem for he/she whosover is unfortunate enough to stumble upon my blog. Read and enjoy. The painting is 'She's in her Mind' by Jill Emery.

jill emery


The shake soaked
what was left
from the drum.

Trawling sharks
fever schools,
elicit support

all for none.
For that space
on time news.

Diffused (fuck
drip dialogue

-all FOR NOT
-some more blow

on blot pad
notes. Squirm, more.
For that space.

On time news,
a plot dulls
the pliant mass.

More blotched
with the nerves
of erred youth,

the snare rag,
the dolled lips,
the stains, stains,

stretching SKIN

declared, here,
todaytoday, for
war is here.

Emulsion fucks
dripping drought.

Schools licit
with those flare
red torches.

waste landing,
bussing skin,

fevering the

Archive number FIVE

Just because I want some sort of online archive...sidenote: I probably should have explained this a few posts ago. Well. Whatever....ANYWAY, just because I want some sort of online archive, here is another of my older poems. The photo is 'Glasses' from 'What are you looking at?' by Joel Kerr.

joel kerr

his SECRET (the won’t die lie)
I wrote about
shouting some line.
For lasting night.

The won’t die lie.
She was there. Chat
chat with him. Hand
crept, with vodka

complicit, like
fairies flitter
to that sleeping
beauty. Obese

thighs, now, seemed
existent, Then.
I didn’t have
hairs, that much, when

the flesh curved. More
startled strain,
repeat that shake.
Nerve, us. Nerve, us.

(Earlier, we
had sung pop songs
and called them poo
songs. We sung shit.)

sings to the girl.
His eyes grapple
her scaling skin.

My bag is tight,
arm strained. Lids go
awry, somewhere
to bathe, wet. Nails

join. Clutch sappy,
distort angle.
To the bloody,
meshy, climax.

Repeat that shake.
I didn’t have
startled strain.
That flash curved, more.

Chat chat with her,
Hand clutch, with vodka.
Repeat that shake,
that won’t die lie.

Archive number FOUR

To mark the announcement of the air date of my much anticipated appearance on Primetime TV, here is the poem that I wrote the night before filming. The picture (for there is always a picture) is...golly I can't remember, but it's cool. Innit.



On some TV show.
The paper dances 
in the blaze, short man.

That switch blade
never happened.
In london, they bleed.

The dirt bird stifles
it’s nest by the train.
No more babies here.

There are no stalkers.
There is no murder.
Abortion repertoire.

The cattle cry, slow,
when the offal dies.
The moan. To assist.

Old ladies wait still
for the stock response.
We are animals.

Dusting creases dry,
quotidian key.
Filling all those mugs.

Fields of water, that skin.
The window sparks fire
in the reaper’s stare.

And we burn like ash.
And we rot like oil.
We were animals.

October 2009

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