Blackberrying At Woodford
On the path three leaves
extend their slight
jagged edge of menace
adjusting to altitude & surviving
The tang of pine resin,
gums the palate & this childhood
is a gum booted summer -
jostling for blackberries
our white ice cream buckets full of juice
the colours of bruises.
Music For Insects
The sunlight moves
across the glass.
A night of watching the galaxy
thick webby crosshatches -
spiders claiming a drift of universe.
Underbelly jazz notes
django django django
are swift fingered riddles.
Small creatures bouncing against
fragile wings at light.
Prelude to a Machine
I like your hum
you offer prologue & initial remarks
sleek metal skin
cool grey perhaps a bright eyeful of silver
thing of beauty
an idea of synchronized woman & machine
a creative visualization
this could work she breathes
I like the conversations we have
she might say as way of introduction
you defy expectation and offer design
compatibility somebody’s brainchild
she likes that in a machine
sketches of a romance
a first attempt
I expect to be here for this foreign disease
I’ve contracted, the simpering flesh -
this recedes as you touch it,
the faint snarl dragging the lip as grimace
pinched under ten-inch stiletto heel.
Not for some out of court dispute
any two-bit judge would dismiss
as ‘waste of official time’.
Dignitaries are not interested in pillows
I’ve arranged and machine stapled to the wall.
Go ahead laugh. You will anyway.
Not a pretty sight, a woman flailing at foam.
Response is cheap. Little return
for invested energies.
Isolate. Turn off the light.
Let her come to grips with her mood
in the darkness, void as opposed to form.
Splintering, humming as she comes
to sense her distraction.