Monday, 29 July 2013

New Writing (2 Poems)

Wrote these yesterday.


It was not a running, more a gallop,
more a trot, more graceful, untrained.
The bridge’s metal echoed dropped anvils, rushing
beneath us as torn deck tape, rippling in ribbons.

The winding path flashed townhouses, red brick,
windows reflecting a New York summer’s heat,
the furthest flashes of visage seemed to be there.

The ladies chain-smoking on their porches, fading,
turned to chatting girls, drinks on patios, fading,
became but blurs of glass in hand.

We slid to the theatre chairs, twenty minutes too late,
foreheads as sopping puddles, legs as tie-off tubing,
breaths held miles back.

The Bringers

Jejune fruitflies, dancing as embers
in the dying sunlight’s ash,
flitting as strange neon to unheard chords,
amongst the license plate stamps, the bowing
fern leaves and rusting mailboxes, the echoing
of suburban pastimes.

The rains come in silent, whispers under heavy blankets,
forming distaff curtains, shattered mirrors,
to view the world through. Ink-like,
the fire furnace swirls about, dilutes in the glass;
connectors, pieces of progress sag shoulder heavy,
under strain of nature, time.

Rising scents of copper, the soft tremblings
of clover and dew grass under foot,
life jutting from the oddest of angles, cigarette
leavings scattered through them, colours contrasting.

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