1. |
Glimpses of light
00:32
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Screenglow, cats’ eyes, cigarettes, fireflies.
Glimpses of light in the night sky.
Static and crackle, suphuric hum.
Glimpses of light in the day yet to come.
Rusty moon, ghosting clouds, silvery rain.
Glimpses of light across the darkening plain.
Casual miracles.
Mirrors and smoke.
Small wonder.
Faint hope.
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2. |
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Half-timbered truths line this postcard-perfect town.
Face offered up to the sun, she sits at the graveside.
She waits.
The kicked-over traces.
The trampled-down dirt.
The hollow tomb.
The stolen shirt.
When it comes, it comes like galaxies.
It comes like starfire.
When it comes, it snaps through her like a supernova.
By God’s hand.
Or by his own.
Or by another
Hand unknown.
Lungful of chlorine, armful of toxins.
Laid low by blow, by bullet.
But laid low by indifference, that’s the hardest to bear.
I’ll come back, she says. She will.
Those golden boys
All haloed hair.
Shelley, Eliot,
Blake and Clare.
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3. |
Chilwell girls
00:33
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Yellowing slowly into the pages of history
canary girls sunless and songless
all day long they pour nitroglycic powder
into bombs and bullets
hazed and dazed in sulphuric fog
vasodilating amongst priapic shell casings
decarbonated and over-oxygenated
into electrostatic ecstasy
the yellow fever of combat
the creeping jaundice of war
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4. |
The poet in the orchards
00:52
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One quince is normal,
two is a quincidence.
To compare pears
you need at least
a pair.
One peach
to each
branch
one fig
per twig.
He rescues a damson in distress.
He opens a gate, observing its poor hinge
and contemplates the unrhymable orange.
He plucks a Cox’s Pippin
he throws it high
in honor of his French comrade
M. Appolinaire
He walks back through the orchards
noting the names of all the trees
mirabelle medlar mulberry morello
pomegranate persimmon pecan and plum.
Sloe progress until there’s just the cherry orchard
to Chekov.
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5. |
Tooth and claw
00:39
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Eviscerated
oven-ready rabbits hang
from his climbing frame.
Desalinated
suffocating lobster crawls
round his paddling pool.
Crisply barbecued
fluttering moth sizzling
there in his night light.
Chewed up and spat out
harvest mouse dropped by the cat
among his stuffed toys.
That fertilised egg
traumatised him at breakfast
and spoils his easters.
Refrigerator
softly hums gently whispers
seems to say: you’re next.
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6. |
A martyrdom compromised
00:29
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7. |
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the olive skin
the tight white vest
the loose white shirt
the quickening breaths
the lifting and the separating
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the sweat the fever
the cantilevered hoist
the moistening skin
the strap the clasp
the wire the hasp
the cup the lip
the stud the zip
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the primer primed
the timer timed
the glistening oil
the spring the coil
the pang the pains
the spreading stains
roll-on roulette
the tight white vest
the trailing wire beneath her breasts
the ticking clock
the tick tick tock
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the plastic tight
on olive skin
the elastic white
on olive skin
the rumpled sheets
the crumpled pleats
the lift the hoist
the moistening thatch
the dampening patch
the cleaving and the cantilevering
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the beads of sweat between her breasts
the tight white vest
the downy nest
deodorised
between her thighs
the nipples pert
against the shirt
the nipples pressed
against the vest
the hidden flesh
forbidden flesh
the glistening skin
the trigger pin
the quick release
the lasting peace
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8. |
Credo
01:28
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9. |
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10. |
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Round the gallery on autoguided autopilot,
her device cradled between three fingers and thumb,
index finger tapping the fulcrum,
its heft and balance in her palm
more comforting somehow than its reassuring words.
She directs her gaze to where it’s told to go -
to Caravaggio.
But when the guide tries to move her on and away,
she lingers, drawn to that watching woman
whose horrified fingers splatter the side of her face
in that strangely familiar pose.
And so they stand these two watchers
hands to their ears
as if communicating across the centuries.
Oh my God is he, like, dead.
Looks like it - there’s loads of blood.
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11. |
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You can flirt
in a yurt
You can look pert
in a yurt
because you don’t have to wear a shirt
in a yurt
or even a skirt
in a yurt
everything’s more overt
in a yurt
there’s a whole new you to assert
in a yurt
once you’ve made that commitment
it’s difficult to revert
in a yurt
and if you stay there long enough
you’ll be an expert
in a yurt
even though your conversation
might tend to be somewhat curt
in a yurt
yes, you can really make that final spurt
in a yurt
you can eat a starter, a main course
and a dessert
in a yurt
or if you like, just yoghurt
in a yurt
and no you’ll never get hurt
in a yurt
you can be alert
in a yurt
or inert
in a yurt
you can sleep on the floor in the dirt
in a yurt
watch your bodily fluids squirt
in a yurt
if you’re French you’ll eat
brie and camembert
in a yurt
sit around reading Jacques Prévert
in a yurt
because, as the French say,
‘on peut vivre la vie verte’
in a yurt
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12. |
Terroir
01:20
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Limpid sun in a late December sky.
Sounds of rifle shots rippling,
of baying hounds rebounding.
We foraged for pine cones,
truffling them out as they snouted and snuffled in the bracken.
He stepped from the trees,
almost perfectly camouflaged,
weathered skin against weathered bark.
On point duty it seemed for the hunters
tracking their prey further down the valley.
He led us through undergrowth
down the path known only, he said, to him
to show us the dolmen
and withdrew to a respectful, custodial distance
while we examined scarified and striated stones,
sacrificial ashes long absorbed into soil.
We saw him cock an ear, tilt his head,
as though sniffing a new scent.
‘Voiture’ he said,
hearing it before we did,
‘elle monte’,
and took off towards the car park,
to flush out fresh quarry,
returning with a new brace of visitors,
harried and run to earth.
Later at home we burned the pine cones in the hearth,
their heady resinous pyre spiralling upwards.
Sacrificial ashes to sacrificial ashes.
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13. |
Moon over Aniane
00:23
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Swollen and distended moon
too full to rise
bumps along the treetops
lumbers ‘cross the skies
The night sated with anticipation
The night weighted with expectation
Swollen and distended moon
gives birth before our eyes
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