Tag Archives: death

Mrs Reynard

fox 1
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

You get used to it,
the carnage,
the ruptured bodies
of the small and the not-so-small,
waiting to be steam-rolled
into the tarmac.
 

The children used to cry at the rabbits;
innards glistening, torn fur
spilling scarlet ribbons
onto adamantine grey,
but even tender hearts
become anaesthetised
to the horrors of the hedgerows.
 

Strange then
that the fox should jar me,
so serenely intact; no visible marks,
no metal tears or twisted entrails
as if he has lain down,
in his exquisite, toffee tailcoat,
exhausted from the coop
or chasing a moonlit hare,
 

cleverly positioning himself
in the middle of the lane,
to avoid having the breath
and the guts tyre-squashed
out of his body, as slick blacks
pass on either side.
 

I drive on, the day unfolds.
I work, eat, talk,
mostly at a distance;
life underwater.
 

I am not here.
 

I am there, always;
on the unforgiving surface,
lying cold in the road,
burrowing my desperate need
into his unbroken fur,
grifting
what little warmth is left
from his small, ruined body.
 
 

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Filed under Free Verse, Poetry

Debellatio

white flag
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Don’t expect me to be light when I
carry your shadows; dusky wraiths
soldered to viscous insides.
 

Don’t expect me to be white when my
canvas is black; scarlet ridged,
and spattered with Clogau gold.
 

Don’t expect me to be right when I am
left with wrongs; tattered and scraped
to my battle-knifed knees.
 

Don’t expect me to fight when I have
already lost; ensigns hauled,
flag long surrendered.
 
 

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Abattoir

foetal 2
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

foetal position by underdos on deviant art
 
 

Slaughterhouse days,
when the rawbone ache
saws through the haze,
 

splinted limbs
lacerating sinew,­­­­
tearing
at metronomic muscle.
 

Sickly marrow
and soft warm blood
flood
the butcher’s block,
 

as we,
curled foetal
in familiarity,
wait quietly
for the hook.
 
 

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The Snowman


 

For my friend Liam
 

Standing between pews,
flanked
by unfamiliar pillars,
I peel back
a late night conversation
we had
about snow;
 

the way flakes
soften and yield
the moment they rest
upon warm flesh
leaving only a moist remnant
of their tender brush.
 

Three years on
I cradle
crystal memories of you
in frozen hands,
while you, pristine
in your chocolate swirled youth
melt
into a starless October night.
 
 

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Wake


 

I dislike funerals,
but the Celt in me
loves a decent wake.
 

Not the
polite,
curly white
cucumber sandwiches
and cups of tea
you could stand
a corpse up in

type of wake
 

or the sort
that forces those
wrestling
with a harrowed,
rawbone ache
to shake hands
with an averted gaze
and sympathetic shoes,
 

but a proper ‘do’,
a celebration
of a full-span life,
mottled with its share
of strife and scrape,
peppered with purpose
and lively liver spots,
 

where the skeletons
are more interesting
than the closets
and the china is chinked
like battle-scarred armour.
 

So, let’s skip the cemetery,
the shallow grave speech
from the unfamiliar preacher
while we pick worm-mulched mud
from beneath our nails.
 

Let’s save on the heating,
cut the cremation,
the lip-synching of hymns,
the scattering of ashes beneath
the sapling limbs
of a strategically placed yew.
 

The phoenix is a fallacy;
nothing ever rose,
scented from the pyre
but the stink of crisp skin,
the wraith of desire
as it whimpered unnoticed.
 

Let’s lay this body
down in the meadow,
on a table cloth
of butternut sunshine,
squashed between cordials,
bathed in a changeling breeze.
 

Open that bottle of Merlot
we were saving,
let it breathe the scent
of campions and daisies
that thrive
beyond the dried bouquet.
 

Allow the sun
to slip smoothly
down the neck of the sky,
instead of wrangling
with darkness
as it steals the day.
 

Unwrap our picnic of
cherished remnants
while Bacchus
opens our throats
and we lace our memories
with melodies and verse.
 

Let’s sleep,
arms wrapped around it
in the dewy night air,
beneath a blinking coverlet
of unknown mischief,
until it’s time to wake.
 
 

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Taylor on Burton


 

He came;
swaggering incendiary,
Celtic virility dripping
from his rim,
gravelly timbre
raking each glassy breath.
 

Vows lost
amid wedded shards,
freefall shapes blown
of our own viscous chaos,
twisted stem highballs
splintering
amid unstable natron flux.
 

We poured ourselves
into a decade, oblivious,
lolled
in hot, sticky carnality,
sluiced scotch
on cut-glass rocks
scooped from cold crystal
to tranquilise engorged
fuck-heat fingers.
 

Scorched,
fire-cut and ruined,
we retreated
to misshapen solid
states, mixing virulent
cracked lacquer cock tales
of medicated misery
and miscast lovers
 

until blistered and bloated,
clasped in the cold grip
of the parison,
he bled into the Céligny night,
 

leaving me to languish,
crushed,
ribboned red,
marbling centuries of loss
on blue-glaze Portland,
clutching his script
in death-wax hands.
 
 

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Senescence


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Your smooth, tanned brow
sits above my tawny eyes,
neat, flat bridged nose
flaring in the glass,
deep philtrum
promising vitality –
longevity a myth.
 

I pour achievements
into paper cups, hold
them to your full lips,
sip small droplets
of triumph, while tucking
disappointments inside
naval-neat cuffs.
 

I wait, knowing that I will
watch time score lines
on parchment, scorch age
spots into soft, thin skin
and etch laughter lines around
features I had thought
beyond my grasp.
 
 

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Chamber Music


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

Blithe metronomic music box,
soft strains propelled by pulse beneath,
spring-driven motor rotates teeth,
 

steel pin-encrypted comb unlocks.
In time the rime-encrusted chimes
scrape, grate and grind the cogent cogs;
 

stalled core harmonic slips its sheath,
its metronomic music boxed.
 
 

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Filed under Octain, Poetry

laissez-faire lullaby


 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 

~ Artwork by the Syrian poet Adonis. The text is an assemblage of pre-Islamic writings which speak of peace and against oppression.
 
 

The road to Damascus is littered with arms;
dealers dodge bullet points in NY,
better suited than mooted –
 

Monger’s wage war on
BanKi’s floor,
 

Martini motherfuckers,
mouth-washed knuckledusters
packing Tommy’s hardware in MDF –
 

guns out, bodies in;
Reaper’s recycling.
 

Beneath Hom’s rubble-strewn streets
incubators blink as infants slip
down humanity’s sink.
 

Lights.
 

Out.
 
 

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Blunt


We woke early the day spoons fell from the sky,
rubbed gritty eyes, sleepily unaware of incoming metal,
left home to muddle through the mundane.

Early March, dark by six when we returned,
seconds through the door when the shower started,
startling the air with ring and rasp.

I barely recognised her voice

The first hit me blunt, brought me to my knees,
freeze-framed millisecond before the second hit
bit into my scalp, pinned me to the ground

while silver rained around. You dragged me
from the deluge, covered my head.
I fled, bled, remember running the stairs,

aware of the screams, dead dead dead
beneath the clatter, hammered-mettle matter
that left me bludgeoned and bleeding,

surrounded by steel that scooped me hollow,
left me to wallow in double-dense days,
weighed down by the hebetate chemical daze.

Narcosis that left me scrabbling for sharps,
searching in drawers for whetted knives,
anything to feel the edge of the blade.

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