creative

Moving to Cornwall

Moving to Cornwall

A friend said that he couldn’t imagine me
eating pasties. In his head
I just ate creepy crawlies.
When I slept,
belly full of butterflies,
bedbugs warned
not to let me bite,
and I dreamed
long unbroken dreams
knowing cockroaches
could survive a nuclear holocaust,
but they would not
survive me.

Crucible – From my pamphlet, Chandelier, out on Broken Sleep Books

The way the sun
elongates over a lake at twilight
the 2 watt halogen energy saver
achieves on your
closed eyelids
after about a minute or so’s warm up,
a time machine whir
and a strobe of blinks.
When you open your eyes
I see this landscape roll halfway
into your skull, nearing brain
but not touching,
revealing the cavern
networks of your iris;
a staggered echo
sounding back my own voice
from the crucible of your gaze:

I love you.

 

New Poetry Pamphlet Available Over at Broken Sleep Books.

Hey everyone,

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

Erasure

The image of you in my head
is fraying,
tailing into anemone fire.
Your crisp lines jittered like
sutures on a skull.

Never just one burial ground.
The rot happens
in that Manchester grave
and the head.

First
there is this Picassion mutation,
a steady morph
then acid baths,
and I’m left with:

Objects – colouring books,
foot operated
ash tray, pocket knife.

Details – a comfy femur –
my throne,
your elbow bend
on the arm of the chair
I could express
mathematically with triangles
and degrees on squared
note paper.

Sense memory –
voice that soothes my mother,
voice –
god of my god,
smell of stew.

Bigger things –
warmth and awe,
cloudish serenity.

And I wish it hadn’t taken
so long to admit,
but it’s okay.

You dismantle,

patch after patch, blacked out
over time
in the primordial alluvium
of thought,

and I’m left with
the raw materials;

the sweet erasure
poem of your soul.

Eyewear Publishing’s Christmas Fortnight Prize.

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.

For the Soul of Your Mother

An evil of colour
this sundown
bedraggled with cloud-rips.
Lost I’d say, or left behind-
red-sided
garter snake ecdysis;
vixen smeared
over an oily road;
or that thrift shop cardie
you’d never wear,
but for the soul of your mother,
can’t take your eye off.

Flu and a Great Cloche

These chronologically challenged fortune
cookies started life on my side
table. Covered my books, todo lists, tickets,
picks; bulged a drift against my lamp,

In the evening nuclear
waste prophesies burned
citreous through the wraps,

telling my past and present.
Delicate pins of red sulk
in plasma like blown glass. The
origami doomsayers

spilled onto my carpet. At times
I’m delirious enough
to think they’re

white roses, or spare
stars, forgetting that reactor
core balled in
threatening meltdown.

I’ve had thoughts of you, S.Lee.
How these chemicals have been
on my skin, my clothes, inside me.
Where are my super powers motherfucker?

If I were not thinking this
I’d swear I’d become object
set here to drip as
salt lamps, stalactites. Inmates

are warming,
have talked to me,
told me jokes.

Orange MK II has noticed
my voice tuned down
an entire minor third.

B I believe.
Asks if I’m into drone.
Sometimes, I say. This guy’s
alright says African

redwood hippopotamus.
And I wonder at his Brooklyn
accent, and absentee tail. I tell
him thanks. The ugly bowl

of pennies/misc. threatens blades
sometimes, but I’m not worried.
He’s mostly just pennies. Graduation
llama asks if I still write.

I am, I say.
Now? As we speak
Champ.

The grandmother clock
we salvaged from a dead woman’s home
asks me who am.

Atlas hatbox knows
very little of geography but a great
deal of the seasons,
and storm formations.

Doesn’t know how talking
about the weather became a
faux pas. Believes it to be
the closest thing to real

magic after art, the relative strength of ants,
and a great cloche.

Engines/Insectarium

Dry laughter of night trains-
beneath scoliotic spines of galaxies
and moonlight rib bone stark around the boiler-
nips the ghosts of idle machines. The chains
holding cold engines have no weakness.
In neat cryogenic sleep, dreaming of breath,
their tidiness evokes emptiness;
emptiness imitates death.

Top Heavy

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.