Poem Set in a Remote Outpost of the British Army

**

We go to bate the jauntier hun,

the pearl that grows in the wadi.

One jaunt leaves half the team

without toenails,

just shims in obis sucking up toxic puds

and fingering the pearly hafts of their rifles.

So we spar amongst ourselves,

eke out our wraths in full gillie, knees against

the dashboard of the van. Moods darken.

We grow fins, detox and

finally we cede the zone.

Spare us, ay, if you so desire.

***

This poem is constructed entirely out of words placed during a game of Scrabble.

**

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Everyman

Your shaven pate has the hue of a whole economy

chicken in the freezer cabinet though not corn-fed

with the yellow almost foreign tinge and you are not

kettled because you do not care though you are trapped

inside the centrifugal force of this one-way system

and a mediaeval subway through which I used to pass

though nowadays I favour the sky caving in above the city

and if you with your frozen chicken skull your naked mask

were caught beneath the wheels of an articulated truck

lost east of Leman Street I might stand by you and love

yes love might flood the vaults we share those newly-minted

magnificent and sunken plots.

The Herbals

3:AM Magazine has published a poem of mine: The Herbals. Thanks to Poetry Editor SJ Fowler for that.

Written last year sometime, this piece now seems strangely prescient. Then again, you can stretch a poem pretty far.

In any city or text-based
practice to be confined
in such articulated coffins
collapses desire & its
attainment causing

sweat
to
gush.

Read the full thing here.

The Island of Gates

 

 

This island is waiting for a gate

a gate in steel or a gate in glass

a gate stretching the concept of gate

a deflecting gate in a gap in the circuitboard

a gate that will not be relocated brick by brick

a gate not a door, not a house, not a barre

a gate that cannot be locked

on an island that cannot be reached

all designs will be hacked

the aliens have already arrived

a gate is what’s needed, they’ll say

on the island of gates

in the city of eyes

 

 

L

Silkworms Ink have only been around for about 5 minutes, but already they’ve chalked up a staggering 50 e-chapbooks by the likes of Michael Egan, Chrissy Williams and Sam Riviere. A vital resource for scoping exciting new poetic talent, they also run an entertaining, provocative and intelligent blog.

So I’m delighted to have been asked to contribute a poem to their latest bumper anthology. There’s tons of good work in there, so I recommend setting aside a couple of hours to peruse.

Here is Vol. L and here is my poem.