Poems!

Letter to a suit of armour,

We have both been here before,
Paused, stood, and stared before. And

I have to ask- Is it
the light that keeps you so still?

I've watched it pleading,
its yellow yolk weeping
on the shoulders of
impassive you. It finds no features to cling to.

You look seamless. So tell me,

how did you empty? Was
your person plucked away by a sharp beak? Or did
they wither and decay? Are your bones still
inside? Did you creak
shut like an oyster?

What I mean to ask is

where did your details go? Did you trade
them for a legend, quid pro quo?

And last of all, would you
describe yourself as an elephant skulled accident or
something a little more Faustian?

You're a success, that's for sure:
there's a real crowd here to recieve
your address. You know
what they're looking for:

a scattered palm of bones,
a battle scar,
a nameless quiet they can't remember,
a balmy unknown.

They all look for it. They'll
always look for it. They're in your thrall.
But they'll never find that
sense of an ending. No. Not here.

So I just wonder how you do it.

You're a constant, and I'm keen to know

what you would say if I asked
how you felt. Do you feel valiant now,
taking the fall for your name, or do
you know you're a sucker? Would you stutter that out

Or only wink and confess
that you were forged
an effigy, in full battledress?


----
Knowledge,


In a fever dream, black dooms descending

He lies rapt in stupor.
The windows tilt from his halo, the dry
heat ticking, each death rattle measures light into
reflections- form a periscope. One eye is all
that is needed to see. People

stutter along streets, gloom draped. Voices
soften and stretch, heard through memory and dreaming-
one hundred shadowy watchers meld to tarmac. Only one enters.

Yard lights convulse, scald twilit moments, birds
settling on flares. He blinks,
old as time- skin a coral of waxes, leather from his own glow. Eyes,
molten yolks still glimmer beneath lids, fat sunken. She watches,

notes of orange blossom form
a noose: all her palettes collide. She mothers
all earth- cannot . A beginning with no end, future, past.
Roots run transatlantic, languages bud- tiredness. Immortal,
he doesn't breathe.

He wakes to light dappled through glass and birch.

-

He was the oldest and the first,
his house heavy with rotting decades. TV
translated static into prayers, sun-bleached spines
bled stories. Paisley throne, cigarette smoke
caroling glory to ceiling fans. Time

was his only child, tiredness his only poison: peeling
junk mail, the musk of winter, slowing pulse, ice gilded
ripples, carpets moldering damp, age lined china moons. The

saddest fever lost its sting. Sleep, she
bathed him, mother again. Strained sobbing to a
wheeze, sang all the flashing incandescence of star-dew
to a lantern blush, golden voice coaxed identity into the
omnipresent.

-

From her earth came a city,
it ripened in the light and split the air,
it sheared the soil and rooted in her belly.
-
The vines creep over the city.
-
In the dark, light lamps from her palms.
This is where she held her secrets, and her power- in olive eyes. To

her youngest she passed
a fizz of sound, but never
spoke. A promise.

It rattled in the wind's verdict.









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Sarah you're amazing.

we're amazing. ;]

Aha yes. but you more so