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This poem was first published in Make Your Mark, Issue 7, March 2015
Subsequently published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017
Tag: 2015
Homeless
I am a thing / not a thing
elevated to the status
of object / product
a float between what
you’ve seen / thought you saw
. / ignored
the error of our ways
is the tragedy of our days
how long until O becomes Q
until the realisation gains a tail
& the question of de-evolution
is reconsidered by apes
on a production line
look, squatted in a shopfront
under discoloured blankets
the disgrace of our lives
thrown from the line
I am a thing / not a thing
Published in Page Seventeen, Issue 12, November 2015
Published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017
Smalahove
A semi-found poem based on the OECD Studies on Tourism and the Tourism Experience: The OECD-Korea Workshop[1] taken from the article ‘tis the season for a serving of sheep’s head? posted on dangerous minds[2]
burn away the wool from the head
leave the skin intact & brown
split the head into halves by axe
remove the organs but the eye & tongue
clean, salt, & dry for days
then smoulder on a cold smoke
of juniper, dry oak or alder
having been both salted & smoked
the head could be preserved in an airy place for months
to serve the dish
water & steam the head for three hours
then present with stewed Swedish turnips
& potatoes boiled in the skin
First published in Tincture Journal, November, 2015
[1] OECD Studies on Tourism and the Tourism Experience: The OECD-Korea Workshop, OECD Publishing 2012, ISBN 978-9264171923
[2] http://dangerousminds.net/comments/a_serving_of_sheeps_head
Don’t Think Too Much
Don’t Think Too Much
don’t think toom uch.
Ascension
Ascension
Man Alive, Number 5
Another dream of “normal” life,
the morning takes a knife &
plunges it into a weakened soul,
waits until time sears the pain & then
wraps it in a plastic bag of pregnant desires.
The bingo caller’s lost his voice,
numbers fall to the floor, & are
left to roll around while the players panic,
clutching cards to their chests,
under house/cardiac arrest.
Sleep & the day becomes another,
dread falls like a midnight phone call –
did you remember to leave an
out of body message now you’re a
thousand sighs from home?
But
maybe you should call home,
to save some embarrassment of absence,
find out if someone’s fed the elephant in the room,
and watered down the dandelion wine,
(be responsible, man). No,
instead you eat a cancer sandwich
& sit on the side of the road
while cars race past
and a voice in your head screams
“BINGO!”
Published in Tincture Journal #9, February 2015
Published in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books, December 2017
When I Last Spoke to Cocteau
for Jean Paul De Santi
When I last spoke to Cocteau
he told me about a spin-
-ning game he played
as a child,
. I laughed but Cocteau
just smiled – then serious
he said “I wrote to Satie
the other day but I don’t expect a reply.”
I told him I’d been to Arcueil
just after Satie died,
found a pile of unopened letters
near where he worked.
Cocteau didn’t want to talk
anymore & said we should
go for a drink
he pointed to the end of the street
where a piano played the sound of clouds
but I was too tired.
A version of this poem was first published in Writ. Poetry Review, 5 January, 2015
The above revision appears in The Frequency of God, Close-Up Books (December, 2017)
A video of the earlier version is available here
An audio of the earlier version is available here
