Saturday, 30 May 2015

1 New Poem

Branches, Bitter
You sting still with oak switch
melody, a creaking, careening half-sorted
thing of pretense to push, pull-apart
like children's building block etched
spectrum, your lips still dying to draw
pale blue-eyed passions on ambassador
brick walls in the slightly shaped, inviting
curves of unplanned sprawl, dressing gown
hem line in how, at one time, just
a right angle of porch light can
seduce us all, just a first push to
illusion can be a start to grand falling,

but for the bramble bush of thorny
crime, but for the beloved turn of
eyelash curl to tabulation, calculation,
broken by formula this manner and that,
until its pieces shone bright,
mortuary bone and sticker tags
on sterile glass, but for the cuckoo
clock anatomy revealed of gears and
theatrical spark: so simple the tick
to youth's hands, comprehended,

yet a lifetime's trial in making.

Monday, 25 May 2015

1 New Poem


Some people find it easy,
walking on hay fever air and sun-shower
prismatics, spectrum reflection
in the summer youth of their
flight-pattern passions;

Oh, how kissed they must
have been to memory, or
in some supposition those
broken hours of waiting, waiting
in the light of half-cooling
computer towers, whirring away at
heavy-eyed hours, too much
content with silence sittings.

Couple quarters on a table-set
Ms. Pac-Man machine, rigged pinball
stapled camera lens to dock lighting
set-ups: how perfected, how false,

how hard it always could have been.

Wednesday, 13 May 2015

1 New Poem

To Read in Five Years' Time

You live on flashed lights,
distance speculation, temporary
markings in the tribal sets of
our age; kind of dapper swirl
that stuns in midnight hours at
twenty-five but sour-stales by
thirty with the same clammy-headed
pill bottle pound awake-arise rhythm
of slanted beam ceiling, cracked lead
paint and charming irregular door frames.

Those same still-planted detachments,
coldness as some straining affect,
calm passing in raging tumult you never
faced in head charge, sheltered by
sunglass ironies, imagined wit;
how grand to keep believing

some heart beat in same teenage
time, the questions posed by one-off
mid-90s alt-group, pitter-patter
of scraped guitar chords you
could have worn as a halo,
worn as a cloudy cloth,
trail, rag-and-bone parade,

since you cracked the first
meaning of words in chapbooks.

Monday, 4 May 2015

1 New Poem

No Place in Particular
It is me and the chime bass tic of
a moderately talented 12-bar blues band,
jack skiffle beat to match the
swish of quarter-water Czechvar tap;
some half-tolerable mediocrity,
more passion than inspiration,
more rushing flop-sweat than charm.

It is you and the land of orange-fronted
storage lockers, flat middle Canadian dialects,
an endless expanse of still lives, passive
flowing the muddy creek banks toes
dug between at uncle's fishing lodge,
in relief from summer's pavement pulse,
the same shaky condolence of, now, your hands.