Tag Archives: poetry

The Hothouse Remains

Written for Zymbol Magazine, read by Benjamin Norris (and Anthoine).

First video.

 

1.

The heat in here stays constant, netted

kept unmoving, billowed down.

Down all, all the leaves to

lethargic rubbered limbs – I can only

ascertain who comes or goes by read-

-ing the peaks in this dim but varied

show of slanting white-wet lights

2.

wrought iron corridors
this swelling, lead crystal-
-ised sweat rises and
congregates in old fields

obese lungs, panting.
A stamen paralyzes the

hacking of mists. Some-
where, damp leaves
a shattering.

3.

We grow inside houses.

It may be easier
to find us – look inside
there’s a space where you can see
a battle with the urge
to simply orbit one another
swinging around a larger mass
we haven’t found a word for
yet. The days drop off,
we spend one moment
seeking ways to wound,
the next lost in grasses with
blades splitting skies, and these
useless links are what birth us
to ensure we never really move

4.

You spoke of long-gloved hands: you claim to not
see where the climbers stretch to, only spaces:
the leaves are powder. Distance swells, unorganic

a beating through the lead-lined frames: afterthoughts
assume your shape: you remember that before we burst
husks, there was a minute when we were not

5.

What happened here?
the window lining pulled away – just
an inch, a curve allowing
different airs

to penetrate
the sticky mass, the bulb
heaving with humidity

so all clamour to the splitting
shock grows out from the glass –
the vapour’s fit for breathing

the vapour’s fit for breathing
though fast closed up again:

enthusiasm soon resembles
panic: grassy hysteria gums
and tramples underfoot while

spring passes by outside
as we knew it would.


A Walk

An oily sun

turns on England, see

rolling icons:

the slick stuff of old photos in

 

a shade of green that still

seems somewhat unlikely.

Pylons lurch from groaning gaps

where rust and soil collide

 

blowing inwards a

childhood terror, egged on

by public service broadcasts –

a boy once died

 

alongside greasy signs, all

Danger Of Death

and yellowed reminders that

our trespasses will be prosecuted,

 

unforgiven.

Out here, no good mornings,

no forelocks tugged.

Just wet stones, slowly turning.

 

Yet still cars pass,

out for Sundays strapped in.

 

A corner was taken at speed.

Birds slice up the skies.


Ores II

it seems all things leave a powder trail

forced out behind and scattered down

all things showing where what was

from green eyed girls across the border, to

                             –

scrapings of metals across new skin and

I can only really tell what changes

by observing the flashes in this refracted

show of blinding living lights

                             –

and each flash keeps blowing sulphates to

shuffled feet attracting rusts

which in turn, get dragged and shown

all that slowly gums my eyes


Ores I

We bore holes in us, as if attrition comes naturally.

Water does what water does, slowly builds more layers

while time comes on and throws us under inch-

thick crusts of residue. Slapped on fast, this way and

that, varnish up our weakest points so we can’t see

despite being flush against the panes – we stay

sitting, smoking slowly, refining the crudeness

of our gestures until we pump ourselves outside

                                     –

even then, nothing can remind you of the day

when our selves glinted, shiny new:

hips crackle and spit, and something silver corrugates lips

with not quite words slagged out in heaps.

                                    –

We grow inside houses, this much is clear, yet

our hair stays flat, we count the days in single strands.

Reduced to a specimen, a set of samples:

hours kept stock in breathing bowls, broken bones

pile up with kisses, the taste of iron.

My memories clamber under skies,

fuming full of smashed clay pots and the days

when our mouths moved, and music came


a year of all

For every sound stays netted, always

turning handles, smearing names and

I can only tell what changes

by picking out the rise and fall

of nebulous shows of skyscapes held

 

tightly trapped in bell-jars, we

push lips against the glass to see

only what is ascertained

between the splits made out to us –

winter passes quickly so

 

flick the switches, change the name and

open your mouths again to call


do us part

the air around my heaving face clambers with

smashed terracotta, glass, the transition of hemispheres

hauling a sun from this end to that one.

Dust catches on my lip and words still fail but

 

“one foot falls behind the last, and

he’ll be all he can for you”

yet while we wait for rings on our fingers

and bells on our heels – voices cease to start


for an end again

my half-held breath will follow – it always seems

you cannot help but sack my words and

tie them down between our days to

 

find a moment in which to wish

you’d stayed behind, away from lungs

which forced a space into your home

 

a curled form pressed upon your bed, still

the presence left in air forced out

between antique chairs I re-position –

 

yet still you welcome, me, my being

here leaves an image inside your eyes

a memory: there was a moment, we danced