dotting the i

he stabs the clothes onto the line
his hands feel damp at the soft seems
shoulders fold in the wind
toes clip the needle grass

he rivets another idea down
the scented stars watch him
and the nylon clouds paint emotions
beneath the seams of evening

tomorrow while his head is buried in
the plump pillow and fuel-injected birds
narrate the churning traffic

he will wait for the recumbent sun to
strum the dreams down into
the drain’s chortle and

his hound will punctuate the
peace with a guffaw


plastic I & plastic II

plastic I

tonight while i cook
i look into
hannah’s faded face
with her flaking fingers
she clings onto that
microphone full of grit
and glamor
– so the critics say

she’s getting old now
the flowery spotlight
drowns the echoes of
female essence floating
through her clothes

she’s a singer now
my dad told me once that
yesterday’s heroes only
eat the bread that
certain slivers
of society bake
in their unconscious oven

i wash the dishes and
my hands graze hannah’s
supple neck and muffle
her laminated lips

perhaps it’s time i buy
a new radio with
a round volume dial
that can cloak the chime
of adolescent deejays

and allow me to sleep
for a few more minutes


* Β  Β  Β  Β  Β  Β  * Β  Β  Β  Β  Β  Β  *


plastic II

he stood in the store
her plastic arms
baking under
the neon breath
of color and customers

her poise is natural
the eyes soak in the clammy fingers
that slice each benjamin out
of their iron wallets

she stands as a model
except for the giddy boys
they reach beneath
her copper eyes and wrestle
the wrinkles in her speech

when the shop is silent
she is bathed in the dark
treacle of ghosts
the soda soft light falls
onto her hair and pries a laugh
out of her pixel thin lips

at night she is still there
her shoulders are the scaffolding
we use to build paper pyramids
of gleaming gadgets

she will only smile at us
once we’ve exhausted our
flavorant filled bodies
still digesting more mounds
of cardboard coffee

we’ll sit by
that same fountain outside
with its necklace of birds
its giddy sun dancing in the
spurts of water
and feel our skin become
warm again



poetry, Reviews

Ted Hughes – Macaw and Little Miss

I’m an image whore. I love poetry because it achieves this almost immediately And of course you don’t get much better than Ted Hughes. I enjoy him because he’s the Beethoven of poetry. He creates the storminess and ferocity that many other are afraid to mention and talk about. He uses the animal kingdom to reveal the dark side of humanity. He can be tender at times, but generally he’s vivid and intense.

This poem is probably more suited for a horror film, but I really like it. Comments are always welcome πŸ˜‰

Macaw and Little Miss

In a cage of wire-ribs
The size of a man’s head, the macaw bristles in a staring
Combustion, suffers the stoking devils of his eyes.
In the old lady’s parlour, where an aspidistra succumbs
To the musk of faded velvet, he hangs in clear flames,
Like a torturer’s iron instrument preparing
With dense slow shudderings of greens, yellows, blues,
Crimsoning into the barbs:

Or like the smouldering head that hung
In Killdevil’s brass kitchen, in irons, who had been
Volcano swearing to vomit the world away in black ash,
And would, one day; or a fugitive aristocrat
From some thunderous mythological hierarchy, caught
By a little boy with a crust and a bent pin,
Or snare of horsehair set for a song-thrush,
And put in a cage to sing.

The old lady who feeds him seeds
Has a grand-daughter. The girl calls him ‘Poor Polly’, pokes fun.
‘Jolly Mop.’ But lies under every full moon,
The spun glass of her body bared and so gleam-still
Her brimming eyes do not tremble or spill
The dream where the warrior comes, lightning and iron,
Smashing and burning and rending towards her loin:
Deep into her pillow her silence pleads.

All day he stares at his furnace
With eyes red-raw, but when she comes they close.
‘Polly. Pretty Poll’, she cajoles, and rocks him gently.
She caresses, whispers kisses. The blue lids stay shut.
She strikes the cage in a tantrum and swirls out:
Instantly beak, wings, talons crash
The bars in conflagration and frenzy,
And his shriek shakes the house.

-Ted Hughes