Tag Archives: gog

Self Portrait. Poem and a painting.

He’s painting faces on himself, again,

the waterline slips
higher than intended.
Somewhere on the radio – possibly
everywhere at once –
a river breaks her banks.

Self portrait, self –
some fluid warps the base of my door,
but far too slowly.
Tiles are lifted, trails are split
but far too slowly for

Him, fixed in mirrors
flat-out between panes –
painting faces on faces, gazing back;
the waterline shatters light apart
as it levels with the bed.



They say she came from the north, and spoke the words of the horsemen, the horse, the men who eat the horse and the fungal strands that take the men. They say she was good with words.
They say she saw the flood gnaw and splice the foundations of all but eight houses in her city.
They say her fingers are stained blue with copper nitrate.
They say her ankles creep with verdigris, as would an old statue, in an older garden.
They say she is younger than she looks.
They say she killed a man.

The Flatlands (Or The Quiet Death of Gog and Magog).


Could anyone let me know why this particular poem is getting a huge amount of views this week? Please comment and let me know why! I am pleased, but puzzled…

Cheers, Benjamin





To pick your fruit from chimney stacks

Is a quiet, steaming trigger.

The trees are slimming at the waist,

Applying whorish rouges

To their splitting seed pouches.



We stepped on mossy linoleums

To creep, hard-toed onto grass.

The garden is heaving with

Rinds and hammers,

Lubricant and whale-bone.



You scratched your favourite words

In ashes on the pavement.

Like your red-haired friend

Who knew a boy who died, once.

Loss on a martini glass.



The soot-flooded twig still lies there,

A testament to your good times.

I remember you flailing, bound

In hankerchiefs and father’s rule,

Stuck in hilltop houses.



And so, I sat down for breakfast,

Waited for you to descend

With arms piled high with chimney stacks

(Stolen from the more deserving)

On which to chip my teeth.