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18 February 2011

3 Choices

3 tiny poems, 3 ways to breathe them in...

cut sharp in the brick / a strange wound painless & black /
painted by sunlight / her fingers carefully trace /
your shape on my morning words



cables rest on ballast / like / fat snakes /
points hiss and coo / dancing left/ to take you home



this dulled edge / sharpened / by a / lick / of love /
now I must / swing / into my own / minim


16 February 2011

Rush




as we oscillate
towards
the exit
newspapers peek
from
pockets
fingers
nimbly
stroke phones
each slack-jawed
vowel
met
with a
sharp
twist
of accent
languages
mix
whiskey licked lips
permeate
the air
a momentary
frenzy
as we
slow
to a
halt
chins
on backs
shoulder
to
strangers
shoulder
every
steel trimmed
step
punched
with the
fists
of our
feet

listens

to
our
lithe
rush
home
when
I am
ripped
from the
seams
of myself
I am spilt
into the cool
coo
of
sky
spiralling
in
parallel
to my
conscious
self
seeing the
joy
I am
wrapped
in
the
coldness
and
the
wonder


part of  http://onestoppoetry.com/ one shot wednesday

14 February 2011

when I try  

to  

taste you 

as if  

you  

were mine  

the pith  

peels  

from my mouth

and dances

back  

into yours

13 February 2011

She

She
Is the one
That
Reconciles
This shell and its ingredients
Something so sweet and dischordant
Sifts
Through
The
Sand
Until she finds something precious
Finds words and shapes
That swell
And burst
I love her.

Early


Hear the dulcet tones of Costis Demos reading these words

The day is just cracked
Just spilling
Into the brick wall
In through the duvet

Each wheezy lung awaking
Brain starting to swivel
To whir and click
Conjuring a plan
Picking a path for the day

I am bone
I am dust collecting
I am dry
Each heavy eye lid lifting
Unpeeling
Body stretching
Reclaiming itself
From solitude
Legs twisted together and warm

I can help put this ship on the water
Unleash each yawning sail

There is half a bunch of carnations on my desk
In a pint glass
Next to an empty bottle of red wine
I am crunching my cigarette
Into the ashtray
(( the hush of traffic more like a whinge ))
My muscles loosening from their knots
Tongue deciding
Whether it wants coffee
Or water
Or a mouth to explore
To groan into
Bare bulb
Bleeding permanent glow
The painting askew above the mirror
(( the hush of traffic more like a whinge ))
I have beaten the day still
In its amniotic fluid
I am birthed
I am born into my blankets and pillows
My dry mouth
Tangled hair
Warm feet
Time will soon be pinching
Giving it’s sterile measurements
The pattern in my head
Struggling to defend itself amongst the contours
The terrain of all other reality
Each undertone appreciated
Adored