Saturday, December 31, 2016

Timothy Edmond # 30

There was a spider on
my face not the tattooed

I was in the Bongo
Van delivering drugs
the door was open
and the kids fell out
and the teddy bears
but I made it
to church on time.

We had to sit down
and work something out.

Brickwall and Mouse were
there and we thought
of calling in Lolly Legs
and Fatty Boom Bar
but they
always got the wrong
end of the stick
and went off
and did something stupid
before the plan had been
worked out saying but
I thought that’s what
you said.

We sat down in close quarters.
We figured if we
were in goal
it would be the best place
to be course we
couldn’t have done it
Gumnut course we were

This was the plan
but we hadn’t decided
what had to be done.

“Maybe we should call in
the poet.” Said Brickwall.

“No no.” I said,
“Only at the
very end of all possible
scenarios do we call him
in to comb our eye brows.”

We had a lot to do.
We drank heavily and smoked
Nepalese hash oil and imbibed
lines of speed.

As it was time for bed,
my wife come in with
tea, milk and sugar.

Mouse said sitting leaning
in a corner, “I can’t
stand it like it is”.
After a moment, he said,
“I think it’s our side that
must come down. They
are the ones who can’t
be trusted. We must
clean out the chicken

Before noticing I
noticed the other two
looking at me and me looking
at them as they both looked
at each other.

The Brickwall cut and
snorted a huge line
of speed like a slug
“I’m going to my
Brothel.” He said. He
finished his glass of whisky
standing and said. “Brothers
I disappear. This thing
must be done. No one who
ever knew I existed
will exist.”

He was always one for
big statements.
Once he’d gone Mouse said,
“We tomorrow I won’t be here
to exist.”
He hugged me.
“Are you taking a long
journey?” He said.
“Someone must pull the
“Respect. I won’t be
here tomorrow.”
We shook hands.
“Someone must take
care of Baby Jane”.
“He won’t be talking
tomorrow.” Mouse said.

I saw him to the
door and watched
him drive away.

I packed my
children and wife
in the camper van
I ‘d prepped
which had tourist
written on the side
and turned the gas
on in the house.
My wife said as we drove away
“We’ve left the washing in the drier.”
4.20am read
on the dash.

I drove slow.

“We move” I said
with the guinea pigs in
a box in my hands
I flicked the spider
off my face with my
my glasses. They slide
across the floor.
It was a white tail.
“That’s what happens”
I said to myself.

Robert Verdon, #402, axis

We cannot cage the minute
Within its nets of gold
Louis MacNeice, ‛The Sunlight on the Garden’

a slippery roof by a river
a frieze here, but what can it mean?
lead-grey and wet
still leaning yet
millennial in year 17

Lizz Murphy - Poem 365: This has become my language

 A composition of found texts from the Heads art & text series September to November, 2016


When the showcase is over
and a woman is the normal
consciousness, everything changed.
this has become my language

trying to weave
increasingly rare encounters
just moving in the wind. I
sharing the potent stories

when asked to pinpoint the very
the broken objects
growing up in a country shaped
“I carefully walked along
in their trembling bones

paint runs in the rain
those curious sensations
hemmed her in.
in an audacious dream of
was so strung out

her on the streets
in a cardigan.”
standing out in our minds

she uses them to shut out the world
from the inside
dark reality and
something about the face

being in the right place
can’t articulate in words
think deeper.

Sarah St Vincent Welch #366 old year's night

goodbye old years’ night
poems of shadow, dreams
I click and turn the pages
and wonder
(a line, a return, added)