Honeycomb - Animal Collective Oblivion - Grimes 212 - Azealia Banks Kill For Love - Chromatics Baby's On Fire - Die Antwoord
Submission Date:
20 Jul 2012
Category:
Poetry
In Podcast and Chap-book
Vanishing Point
for T
We meet tonight in a friend's face, who's hardly there, caught in himself. One arm latched on the bar. His eyes
seal's eyes, swimming in the dim pool of his sockets. Almost calm, struggling to line up his limbs.
He tells us the same ten stories: the American, a seven-foot tranny, the night in Dalston alone; that missed plane,
brown crumbs, a sniff, two thumbs to the neck; a tray of baby mice, the empty debt, a man light as air.
Happiness At -10oC
Rioja delivered 3,000 miles and forgotten by the back door, found casketed by snow, cork raised on a neck of ice.
*
I’m doubled by cloth, by Gore-Tex, by the air between fibres, the space of the world.
*
Stopped in my tracks by that boulder in a cloak of rain turned to ice. The flash of the lighthouse off the surface, again, again.
*
Five houses and the shape of them through leafless trees, this community in miniature by a plane of solid sand.
*
Silicate, SiO3; sodium-chloride, NaCl. The collapsing wave; two moons: the sea, the sky.
Love Is A Ford Focus On Parliament Hill
The day will come when you are a car. Stalled on a heap of dirt. Preoccupied by your engine that fails to start, your slashed tyres, those nicked caps, your bumper scratched from too many collisions. The jack will heave you up and your exhaust will fall off but you won't see, your headlights dimmed, your tail lights cracked from years of play. You won't feel the molecular change or sense your wipers clinging to the glass, the build-up of their electric charge, or the fur on your dice bristling at the invisible touch.
The day will come when you are me, the steering wheel our hips as our warm lover splays his hands, pushes with his foot against our clutch, tries to find the biting point. As he takes apart the panels beneath us, hot-wires our insides, starts to spark a cigarette. Blows the smoke towards our vents. When he ignites our bonnet. That roar as we shudder to a start, our working wheels spinning on the spot. The pendulum of that sway as we move together, older than we ever expected.
Broken Things
I can’t go anywhere without breaking something he owns. Last month it was only small things, the Polaroid camera dropped mid-flash. The gaudy lamp in two pieces
like a melon lopped in half. Last week it was his suitcase on the Underground at Old Street. Clunked down an escalator, handle snapped clean off as I flustered down the metal steps,
weaving Sorry, Sorry, past vacant commuters. I carried the insides home, presented them like a dejected cat with a vole, said Sorry (again). I wonder if I dare
have something of him close at all times, something I don't want to break, or have topple down a lift shaft, when I’m not looking.
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