Monday, 15 February 2016

1 New Poem

Proceeds so logical from
prop-engine dreams to settled state,
fugue between distraction, dedication,
two poles before logic of
iron ore pits; it wasn’t worth
all these screaming matches across
grays of matter, Brighton waves
finding their life’s match in crest
of skylark wing motion.

It was so well-kept,
made imperfect.

Sketched out dragging formation,
that rumbling surface ever same:
hot from penny-piece pill remedies,
hot from swelling deliberation.

It makes greater moulding than impressed
copper, faces of ancient god-kings in
line: yes, again, it remains, hovers,
cloys, prom dance perfume,
teenage bonfire cedar.

It was so monochrome,
made infinity’s shade.

Taste of colour drags heavy,
touching as oil spill ink pot
next graces of glance, next
kind of hopeful nature could
come to shaking leaf sprawl

It was so imperfect,
made whole.

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