Posted: August 4, 2013 in Fiction, Poetry
Tags: , , , , , , ,

The Non-poem


I sit in cold strip lighting

thinking about what to write about,

& all the things I’ve seen

but never put down on paper;

the Friesian scratching

her neck on a fence post,

nothing to set

that little image against,

except maybe man,

more specifically you

scratching your bollocks,

the nature of things

It’s how mammals move,

and then there’s the gorilla

masturbating in his enclosure,

and again man,

more specifically you

hairless and naked

in the bath tub,

and what of the sea

its endlessly moving edge

pulled up by the reach of a moon

and once more man,

more specifically you

walking into the distance,

not once looking back,

with only a small leather bag

and the heat of the sun

weighing you down.



The Humble Blue-arsed Fly


travels miles in search of the perfect spot

to deposit her eggs


all to give her young

the best possible start


the inside of a cheek or nostril

or the gaping red hollow

of road kill


next time you’re scrapping

the twisted, mangled body

from the newspaper


remember, we aren’t so different



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