She cut loose over the copse. The morning bird:
Singing into the fog of early dew, cutting the dull
Dank clouds with velvet wings, sharp as knives.
I watch her between the long, easy breaths of branches
And their leafy veils, following her flight through
A tunnel of clear dry air until all begins to soak
With morning tears while the fields and woodland
Stir, and somewhere I catch her mounted by a fairy,
Driven down underneath the roots to elven kingdoms.
I drop into my puddle of lost veils: here below,
Where the leaves are sweet with fire colours.
They stare out from their spines. They crackle
Like rotted twigs in the wind, or tiny bones.
Poetry
Consul Aurantiacus
Poetry, ProseI can smell your flat Shandy Bass
Crazy fresh open window Streathamings despite 4x4s
Maybe the orange
Lube seal guardian
The prickle of Sainsbury’s soave
Demented cartoon solipsism
And no questions
Some kind of pure morning sun feeling
Histories now seemingly too similar to be counted
Vague attempts at siphoning
The hairy butterfly embrace catches
In oesophageal anticipation
Exhausted Tadcaster blur moaning
Like Pink Floyd behind the eyes
The drowned sugar between sheets
Invader Zim acceptance
And white emperor armour self-inflicted orange somehow unjust
Like discarded lines sweat-patched
And lonely perfumed shower soap irritating unknown orgasm
A world set above the world
Your shiny glass skull self-reflecting or alien crystal
Talking fish singing penitent
Discarded shirt tie lissom French letters
Vapor boots neatly stacked with wine glass columns
Your epic poetic resounding sweet chill pizza
I could have laid the whole mourning through
No cold in the exhausted breeze cradling
Summer parks, pavements, towers, bins, water, birds, weekenders, dogs.
Poetry, ProseSitting glazed by the sun
This park bench pondering
Stroke victim voyeur
Touched inappropriately by the news
Dragged away from glass nipples
Looked out on the streets
And they were the stone streets
They were the cold streets
They were the dusty broken-slab streets executing old people
They were rough flags that would grit with shoes like sand
Looked at the buildings
And they were concrete slaughterhouses
They were camouflaged with glass and perspex
Their animals put blood in shining boxes and died
They were full of suicide cubicles
Looked at the parks
And they were the garbage hills
The bin mesae overflowing filth rivers from passersby
Modernist artworks of misery and neglect
Their grass was not green but grey
Looked at the river full of water rats
And air thick with flying rats
The water writhed in laminate pain
The plastic bags mocked fish and jellyfish
Ducks building nests out of trash for their furry babies
The world seethed.
But here in the sun, watching people glide
Families with their pets and dogs
Readers, sun-bathers, barbecuers
It’s this:
A little dog gnaws on its leash while the owner says
You like this new leash don’t you
Says
This is much better than the old one, isn’t it
Says
Good boy:
And the way it gnaws almost looks like nodding.
The Site That Jack Built 