Change Time

Changes to come
in metamorphosis we
like butterfly wings
cracking in the sun

coloured letters dry
you folded and cut
these promises into a vernacular
of absence

this empty space
grows
univocal
the pictures zoom out
to vanishing point

as before
we must
build up from this invidious vacuum
build power and wire and glass
build
a monumental distraction

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incessant

the phone’s half-dampened ringing
formed in rare vibration
moves in pressure
bounces like a toddler
to high empty ceilings
around cold corners
penetrates the covers
but not this blackness
of close fibres around
edged with the coursing red of deep arteries
it is no longer possible
to breathe in this tepid space
the physics of choking
force up with the air bubbles
break the surface
at the mid-Atlantic ridge
that frantic ringing
in frayed sound waves
clutches at a thread
in the lungs of bare velvet
tugs

Waypoint

A lot of what I write has hidden meanings in it. I am wondering if this one is too hidden for fear of being all surface no feeling.

 

Long straight road
Black mamba on the desert
Straggling clouds rise in sweeping curves
Over sand-coloured tracks
The road thins towards the vanishing point
Trickles out to nothing

The eye of the camera swoops overhead
We see a tiny outpost
Corrugated rooves ripple like heatwaves
Warp and weft
The air flows on
Smoothing the stones
Stirring the dust into something
Momentarily like a face

Sometimes
People stop
Sit in the lone cafe
Stare out across the wind
Silenced by the thickness of a window
The plains a shimmering red river

They pay for their meal and go
Their change rings on the table
They never stay
There is no hotel
No empty houses

Forever, here, is just a word

Day 23 – triolet

A triolet is a poem of the form ABaAabAB where A and B are repeated lines and a and A rhyme, as do b and B. I’m sure I could make all that into a poem but I don’t think I shall.

It makes me think of diamond rings

the house all empty and decayed

a lonely voice, abandoned, sings

It makes me think of diamond rings

All falling and precarious things

An eye so pretty, yet dismayed,

It makes me think of diamond rings

the house all empty and decayed

Editing poetry: Road Scholar

I wrote this piece about C’s father, who seems to wander the world according to his own timetable. He once lived in a cave.

with stratified hands
circlets of dirt
echo the blurred
rubbed
whorls of his fingertips
he smudges the yellowing lignin
breathes as it oxidises
runs a crooked finger
over justified columns
thin colour diagrams
and broad pages
he is blank and wide as
prairie margins
this lonely
road scholar
retells the parable of the scorpion
shoes fading camouflage
with the bitumen
tree roots
veins
cracks in concrete face
unsure which page to read
he stares into blank
space
like Picasso’s blue family
the moving finger
smoothes the creased pages
with a hard black fingernail
traces the scrawled notes
with empty pen
frail amalgam of feeling
his books are out of date
and the world turns
faster than he can run

Editing poetry: test print

I seem to write a lot about winter. Or perhaps the seasons in between are not extreme enough to capture my attention.

over the winter
a simulacrum of being
dwindles
to a point
harsh as sunlight
focused through a magnifying glass
blazing circle
leering corpse of the routine and subroutine
the social world boils
in rolling cloud waterdrops
constricts
to the frail centre of the echo
recedes
nerve endings shallow gasp at
touch withdrawn
clutch
the fine legato of movement
heat mistaken for warmth
threads separate and smoulder
silk burns
like cotton
cotton like cellophane
cellophane like unravelling protein
plate glass windows reduce to silicate strands
the sound of a footfall inverted
blurring condensation
triplet words sink and tap on the frozen ground

via Editing poetry: test print.