Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Spud

Fine. I’ll write a poem that’s not erotic.
I’ll write about potatoes,
plain old potatoes,
rough, dirty potatoes,
hard, dirty potatoes,
dirty, dirty potatoes,
with their smooth curves
that so perfectly fill the hand,
so firm,
so round,
so…

…so hungry.

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Published in: on June 9, 2011 at 11:31 pm  Comments (2)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Crooked

It is your wry little sideways-smile
I love you for the most.
A half-smile, really –
more than enough.
In the heartbeat-stirred whorls
of my day-dreams
it floats, Cheshirically;
an entirety of you
in one perfect
crooked
line.

Published in: on April 14, 2011 at 4:30 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Succulent You

It is not enough to know you
as other men have known you.
It is not enough to know you
as well as hands,
and eyes,
and lips allow.
I want to know you inside me
I want to know inside you
I want to know you every way you can be known,
I want you still sizzling on my tongue,
I want your saltiness on my lips,
I want the slick grease of you on my fingers;
I want to run my deft, eager tongue over them,
tasting you in tender licks,
my smacking, sucking, slippery lips,
savouring you head-to-hips.

I want you salted, smoked and sliced,
hung and cured and aged just right.
I want the salty bacon of you,
all of you,
just you,
in me.

Published in: on March 17, 2011 at 6:13 pm  Comments (5)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Abyss of Me

What darkness might my dark hands wreak,
in darkened halls,
where darkness speaks?

What fractures might fair fingers form,
and shattering dawn-scattering,
in smashing’s sweet seduction song;
the sound of cracking, cracking on?

What horror might my dread heart sing
into shadows from nothing,
from briny depths deeper than the sea;
the scaly abyss,
abyss of me.

What darkened things might arise,
when weaving shadows like lies,
’til in a cloak of deadened night,
I come, hungry, for your light.

Published in: on January 6, 2011 at 3:47 pm  Comments (2)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Indistinguishable From Magic

Sit in the dark while your keyboard glows otherworldly. Like mystic runes, glowing above a river of energy that hums electric. A river fed by streams that span the globe. A river that sings everything that could ever be known. That laughs at the impossible. Sit, and listen to the music beyond music. Sit, and know that your fingers will never be fast enough for you to be a magician, that your dreams will never be large or mad enough for you to be a god.

Sit, and know that you are a bronze-worker in a golden age.

Published in: on December 31, 2010 at 1:22 am  Comments (4)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Misdirection

He laughs softly as the guard pulls handkerchief after handkerchief from his pockets.

Magicians make the best shoplifters.

Published in: on December 16, 2010 at 8:46 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Quiver

Hello there, lioness.
I see that gleam in your eye;
muscles loaded
anticipation-taut.
I feel you, right beside me,
breath hot on my skin,
and tell myself
that timpanum-pounding ears
are a symphony of excitement,
not fear.
Not fear,
of how gladly
I would taste oblivion on your lips

if I only dared.

Published in: on October 28, 2010 at 6:33 pm  Leave a Comment  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Too Fine a Point

No sharper knife
than truth,
to cut,
to kill
without blood to stain
the innocent assassin’s hands,
who holds his head up high,
and sleeps deep the slumber of the righteous;
the polished knight,
who looks in his reflection,
and whispers no apologies
to those eyes not filled with shame,
yet
so cold,
so unsmiling,
so blue.

*****

This poem is not-unintentionally reminiscent of one of my favourite poems: This is Just to Say, by William Carlos Williams

Published in: on September 30, 2010 at 5:41 pm  Comments (4)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Proseambique – Narcissus

His irises contract to burning pin-pricks of rage and fear. His dying scream bursts up at me, an explosion of bubbles filled with fury and desperation. He thrashes like eels making love. Furious love. Self-destructive, end of the world, break-up-sex love. I feel the tension in his neck, the ebbing of his pulse beneath my hands. As his heart stops beating I become aware of mine, pounding like artillery in my head. His eyes, finally, go dull.

I realise I’ve been holding my breath, as though from some reflexive sympathy. I exhale an explosion. It’s as if my lungs want to throw up at what I’ve just done. They’re not alone. I collapse into the water, sitting beside his floating body. They say most people drown in water less than three feet deep. As my head stops spinning, the metaphysics of it starts to swirl through my mind. Is this murder, or suicide? Is it either, if I’m still alive afterwards?

Contrary to what you may believe, the past cannot be changed, even with time travel. Oh, you can try, but all you really do is cross over into a parallel universe – one that bursts into existence the moment you step back; one where your presence in the past, and the change you made, are simply how it always was. This seems like a trivial distinction – the sort of thing that doesn’t really concern you while you’re designing flux capacitors and growing miniature black-holes in your basement. It’s only when you return to the present that you realise what it really means. You haven’t changed your reality; you’ve side-stepped into another one. One where you never needed to travel back in time. One where you’re surprised, one day, to hear your front door open and find another you walking into your perfect life. Because that’s what you have to do, if you want to keep the change for yourself; you have to walk into this other self’s life.

Disposing of a body is difficult, but it’s made easier by the fact that no-one will ever be looking for it. You’re home and showered just in time. You look up from the book you’re pretending to read as you hear the door open, and smile as she walks back into your life.

Published in: on September 23, 2010 at 3:55 pm  Comments (5)  
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Dispatches from the wilds of Poetania – Behold

What’s got you looking at me so
beautiful?
With those eyes,
better built for Water-Lilies and Adoni,
with those lips, meant for softer lips,
that nose, meant for sweeter scents,
those ears, meant for velvetier tones,
those hands, meant for firmer flesh.

And what sets that little smile on your face,
when I tell you that you’re mad,
beautiful?

Published in: on September 2, 2010 at 5:30 pm  Comments (3)  
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