Featured Poem:
Writer / The reckless sleeper
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Featured Poem:
Writer / The reckless sleeper
Writer
I keep my tools
hidden,
until the sun rasps
its black breath over
the suburbs. Only then
do I edge from
my demure murmuring disguise,
carrying my pen like
an axe,
waiting in the underbrush for
the first bloodwarm faces
to appear. I like
to slaughter the meat out
of them, to space
their soft stomachs across
the page, to stretch
their sinews into
stems and curves,
or else
to pull their wet skins tight,
nailing them down around
the white silences
squirming. I never
wash my hands
after – the whimpers dry
to innocent ink under
my nails. And besides,
I keep my tools
hidden.
The reckless sleeper
Time,
I thought.
Coffeed & inked. Light scarred against mirrors while she practised the world on paper. Kafka crumbling against the comfort of spoons, scarves, skin.
Time,
I thought.
Desire watercoloured, worn like a locket. Who dares not to speak?
Not to run like a child after a blue pigeon? Not to offer the mouth for eating,
not to follow? Who dares not to? Step in, fall through. Kissing crows and candles. Again.
Time,
I thought.
And Leonard wept as she chose the colours of this place:
rhubarb, tea stains, ginger, asphalt, biscuit, scissors, guinness, tongue, memory, bone, canvas, railway, wax, egg, fire.
Time,
I thought.
A reckless sleeper. A puzzle of objects, a guarding blanket. The horror of a blue ribbon. The hollowness of hats. Something to touch.
Time,
I thought.
Walking through revolving doors.
The Tate Modern/Starbucks, London
Writer
I keep my tools
hidden,
until the sun rasps
its black breath over
the suburbs. Only then
do I edge from
my demure murmuring disguise,
carrying my pen like
an axe,
waiting in the underbrush for
the first bloodwarm faces
to appear. I like
to slaughter the meat out
of them, to space
their soft stomachs across
the page, to stretch
their sinews into
stems and curves,
or else
to pull their wet skins tight,
nailing them down around
the white silences
squirming. I never
wash my hands
after – the whimpers dry
to innocent ink under
my nails. And besides,
I keep my tools
hidden.
The reckless sleeper
Time,
I thought.
Coffeed & inked. Light scarred against mirrors while she practised the world on paper. Kafka crumbling against the comfort of spoons, scarves, skin.
Time,
I thought.
Desire watercoloured, worn like a locket. Who dares not to speak?
Not to run like a child after a blue pigeon? Not to offer the mouth for eating,
not to follow? Who dares not to? Step in, fall through. Kissing crows and candles. Again.
Time,
I thought.
And Leonard wept as she chose the colours of this place:
rhubarb, tea stains, ginger, asphalt, biscuit, scissors, guinness, tongue, memory, bone, canvas, railway, wax, egg, fire.
Time,
I thought.
A reckless sleeper. A puzzle of objects, a guarding blanket. The horror of a blue ribbon. The hollowness of hats. Something to touch.
Time,
I thought.
Walking through revolving doors.
The Tate Modern/Starbucks, London
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