Okay, Henry, Kent, as this list is starting to look like the adverts on our
tv, i.e. colonised by the the States (they don't even bother making
brit-versions increasingly now you know) here's a poem that is in a post
from me. I like the movement in Henry's piece , btw, the short lazy drawls.
This poem is of course entirely non-autobiographical, I is another, and
buggering well not confessional, yeuch, the thought. Anyhow, here's an
half-arsed and recent attempt at creativity.
david bircumshaw
Amoroso's Moments
(i)
Orphic Roulette
He wanted to push
so far inside her he would
fit like an axle
or a rich man, a winner, flush.
Still as he was driven.
(ii)
Stock Exchange
After we hauled him out of his dreams,
which were entirely sexual,
and held as fiercely as pillows
like money, smothering gushes,
rushes of flesh to drown in,
the poet spoke of an Ice Age hunter
watching like a bed post
the dear fly by.
(iii)
Electro's map
Everything was moving to a hurt point
like tenderness. The north lode
of night was an axling stake
driven down from a star. A rigger's
drill on the slow clock face.
And I was crushed, and black
as oil. Under timefold
strata, the weight beneath the sea
bearing down on us, shocked
as a compass by it, love.
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