My new poetry pamphlet is available for order now from Broken Sleep Books.
It’s a collection using light in various ways to express scenes and moods.
Broken Sleep Books is a relatively new press with an already impressive roster of writers. Head on over: https://www.brokensleepbooks.com
I found out yesterday that I’ve been shortlisted along with 17 other poets for Eyewear Publishing’s Christmas Fortnight Prize. This is the first time I’ve submitted to an award so I’m overjoyed they saw something in my work.
Eyewear are a small independent publishers based in London making some serious waves right now.
You fell so often
your skull developed craters
and was moonish,
fizzing lunar transients.
Grit asteroids revised
your cranial map.
Maria flowered darkly.
Mountains surged from plate faults,
and basaltic valleys whirled beside
your blood orogeny.
The sun dripped away
behind your swell of horns
and lit you – a theatre
of bones –
and I sat beside you,
eating moonlight sweet from knives,
then dissolved into orbit.
Inside the beacon, someone
found the blue eyed lamb hung;
throat frilled as gunnysack,
in the first field of the coming sun.
Atlas and Axis disengaged;
both strung and trapper.
Music of death-rattle.
Selena’s tracks between used
rubbers, and chocolate wrappers.
How many nights before death,
caught in mooring rope,
the stars washed in so low
a tall man might knock his head;
the moon stooped enough to hang his coat.
In Notre Dame there’s a bookshop
with stickers over every price and barcode,
marking each book up five, ten, twenty euros
because it’s famous.
If you buy a book
the grotesquely literate till lady asks
“Would you like a stamp”?
And every customer looks worried
and quietly asks
“Does it cost extra?”
It doesn’t, so every person says
“Yes, I’d like a stamp please”.
It’s always full of beautiful people
wearing their very best writer outfits.
Up the stairs to the left
there’s a little old piano
in a small enclave
and you’re allowed to play;
if you’re able.
Opposite the piano is a wall of post-it notes
with bits of poetry
all written by the patrons;
all in different languages,
Each one assiduously chosen
by their writer as the line
that communicates their purest essence,
waiting to be seen by a holidaying editor
who will storm the world in search of them
to publish every sick and sweet word.
But they just sit there in a sort of dogged rest,
looking somewhat cemeterial,
twitching each time somebody opens the door;
by everyone that walks by.
I picked up a book
read a page
saw the price
put it back
and played a note
for the dead poems
as I left.