Tuesday, December 27, 2005

skimming

I saw a man, the other day,
skimming stones across the tarmac of a car park.
I looked at him.
"I used to live near the sea",
he said.

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today

Today you poured out one too few drinks;
today you starved on a famine of loves,
this evening your heart is empty of kisses
and your dreams are thin from forgetting,
that the moon can be fog bound and mysterious
at the same time as the cruel seas open and wide
be white-winged and free on the soft warm blows
like an African pearl asleep in the black tide.


Today you rapped on my mind like a top ten;
today you picked me up so slowly, this evening
you scent my hiding place, a writers thirst sobered
up and hidden, the words found by your eyes.
Where can a poet be now but inside the moment
double whiskey singular, ice cubes floating
heat haze rising, the liquid red and black
like the bonfire of our love letters in Autumn?

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Monday, December 26, 2005

stitch, part v








stitch, part iv






stitch, part iii










stitch, part ii






stitch, part i










Saturday, December 24, 2005

"eating shadows" by earnest slyman

Shadows are the chief export
of Brazil, Argentina
and Ecuador.

Organically grown shadows
have twice the nutritional value
than those canned,
affording more taste than shadows bought
at the grocery.

Wild shadows
caught and roasted on a open fire
replenished the nervous system,
repair vital organs.

For a long healthy life
eat shadows poached,
baked, broiled or boilded.

Eaten raw shadows, if chopped up
finely, add much needed vitamin A & B
and minerals, phosphorus, magnesium & zinc.

A bowl of shadows has only
seventy calories.

In Italy, shadows of the Vatican
are harvested, and many of the best chefs
in Rome have deemed it the new pasta.

The sweetest shadows
come in late afternoon shadows
or early morning.

Shadows should be eaten
with a spoon. Though they may also
be sipped through a straw.

A diet supplement, yes,
but as well a rich source of nutrition,
replacing breakfast cereals,
bread, low fat crackers, flours
and if used as directed,
may serve as pie fillings,
cakes, pastries and biscuits.

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completing the outfit

(AND WHEN THEY LIGHTEN UP THE RATIONS
I TIGHTEN UP MY BELT
HINTCOUGHINT)



I used to wish you'd put your hands just so
about my waist, spanning me here and here,
encircling me in love and trust; although
you never knew I cherished the idea.
A small thing. Doesn't matter. Time is gone.
Your hands, so square and kind, don't speak to me.
My waist has grown quite used to life alone.
My breathing's calm. My heart goes quietly.

I find, these days, I like to wear a belt;
I bear it like your touch around the core.
It keeps me safe. Recently I felt
I had to tighten it. I think it's more
than reassurance in well-seasoned leather;
it may be all that's holding me together.

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what matters and where it is

It’s in the core and tip,
and on the tongue,
and in the air,
and what the air stirs on,
and in the tangle of her hair;
and the mittens
lined with fur
he handled as a boy
to walk in winter night
and collect the snow.



It is the urgent
and disabled Now,
first shadowed,
second memory-bright.

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i have a problem that i cannot explain


Satellites catch our thoughts (we're there)

People wearing spectacles
are asked to step backwards


Wars are shortened to fit

into prime time nightly news


With headlights on
highbeams history accelerates
but then misses the turn. so now,
see if
that works

Years pass but the

road keeps on going.


"Can the dimensions of inner

purity be measured in a speck

of dust?", she will later ask.


Even bears sometimes

speak of sacrifice

and behind us

pebbles all argue

at once

(for things to exist)
after all is said and done.

Silence remains the best bet.

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"early morning" by john cornwall

Outside, the early morning's sky
Is still blackened by its evening's mother.
And the dank atmosphere of argument
Lingers like a vision that meets the madman
On the road home.
Where has the sacrifice of love gone?



You turn, unsettled, and whisper
In my ear, "It is over,
There is nothing left to say,"
And I in the deep water
Of recognition do not ask questions
But move from the bed

That has stuck by us for ten years now,
Stand and walk away as if the resolution
Of time had dawned in a different age,
Talking through the mess of acceptance
Such words bring, stand and walk

Away knowing that the age of reason
Is here as you turn away and sleep on.
I stumble and falter: the moon shifts
And all the time the triumph of silence
Mumbles: 'it is over it is over it is over"



As if anything in the world mattered.

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silent but so musical

The silent windowless room
encases us,
hides us from prying eyes,

our bodies wound tight
around one another,

heavy nervous breathing
for no reason at all.

We stare into each other
for what seems to be all night.

Throwing our selves away.

I’ve never felt skin so soft
as you tangle yourself in my legs.

In the darkness
you show me
beauty,

as we lie
in silence
lip to lip.

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music saved the city's soul

A city with its ear to a mobile phone,
En route to a tapas bar
Or packed into a carrriage
Of its Third World underground.

A collective amnesia,
A reverie in Starbucks,

And a revving of Porsches
Outside the Technology Park.
Because everybody nowadays works in software.



The proliferation of lap-dancing bars
A pensioner's bus ride
From the Nostalgia tea-rooms of Southport

Where old money looks at new money
Now arriving
In full regalia
Like the QE2
Down at the Pier Head.

And if now and then the radical historic Beast
Rises from the Mersey to declare
These are the new modes of exploitation,

It only adds to the character
Of a city as memorable as a goalkeepers's gaffe,
Relentless as the Atlantic.

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you dumbass

I didn't believe in falling in love
until I fell in and couldn't get out.
I never even had time to shout -
I lost my footing, lost my nerve,
shot head-over-heels down the endless curve
of the helter-skelter some call lurv.

It's dark in here, no sense about -
just soupy songs about me and you
and all the revolting words are true:
I'm in lurv with you and in pain without.
They'll write on our headstone, not much doubt:
Fell in, silly sods, and couldn't get out.

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Thursday, December 15, 2005

house on fire


I'm just doing this to hold the name, because I'm a greedy fucker.