THE BONE OF A FLOWER

The bone of a flower
nature’s chain
cracks in my hand
somewhere inside
the green armour
plates lock against plates
life leaks a wet trembling

For now, juices still run
feed the whiteness of the head
feed the yellowness of the head
this matchstick going off
slowly in my hand
I think I hear it
a hollowing wind
playing up the cuticle pipe
such a minor note
I hold it more gently
as it slowly runs out
we have no silence here
the boom of lifeblood
gives way to brown

The bone of flower
curling into something
other than life, the downy
hair bristles, a petal falls
as if by command
how long do we wait

SINK INTO SKIN

I go through the motions
From red to pale to yellow
I grow puffy I shrink sallow
The skin peels from my head
Like the bark of a cherry tree
I crawl like a worm across the bed
Shrivelling black in my own heat

But can you please stop snivelling
Your nose running down the train
Your eyeballs roll in the toilet bowl
The world needs me I must get up
The whole world needs me I must get up
The stars burn themselves up, as can I

CRUCI-FIX 2000

We supply only the freshest crosses
crafted Nordic light pine
soaped African mahogany.
Pay by the weight
                     or by the hour

And the new just in: Pink Polymer
industrial strength. RAL colour options
                        beauty that never fades,
a present to last you a lifetime —
perfect for the millennial births
(though we only rely on word of mouth
— we can’t go advertising to kids)

Now, if you’d like our immersive package,
we offer a rabble of jeerers for the walk
         each with preloaded insults —
a modern and a classic slur collection
all depends on your predilection

Finally, there’s your place on the hill
(boundary constraints being as they are
             sadly are out  of  our  control)
but we’ve made the most of the land
so while there are now hundreds of plots
         across the Calvary resort,
installed LCD walls create a sense of solitude
so you can really lose yourself in the moment.

         Nails are five apiece

ZURONG, 901

It is said
Qi Ji, the hermit monk
scratched his poems
with a stalk of bamboo
onto the hides of his cattle
it is utterly unknown
what his audience thought of this
there are no records - but once,
a single bristle
flecked over
a herd of canvas
poems lived and changed
dependent
on the time of day


in the late afternoon
at the bottom
of Mount Zurong
Qi Ji waits
for the clouds to break
he waits for the rain
to accept his work
he waits for the rain
to begin again

ARGENTON SUR CREUSE

Open the night's wound
car beams on heavy
disconcert, disorientate
on exiting a vehicle to the rush
of the heady river, storm in the wheel
a watermill now turns for art's sake
high beams flow against the wall
sending the bats flying on out
stringing themselves to the light
dance to the rush of the river
and the rush of the river