"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
Tiny flecks of red dance across artificial rivers of powdered grain, their movements halted only by the confusing steps of a familiar other. The speed and shape of their routines intertwine, dispersing into the shallows before contorting to crescendos of dual exhaustion. Behind Perspex windows we sift through cycles; charting …
Hidden below the waves an unknown artist plies his trade, moving purposefully to dig valleys and furrows at appealing angles that start to take shape; sculptures of sand rising from the featureless planes of a sunken seabed. Tenderly he inspects his work, flattened fins ironing sandy creases, rising crests adorned …
Mechanical eyes sweep immeasurable skies, searching for life with boundaries pre-defined by the limitations of their homely existence. Blinkered hands reaching into dusky bags to pull blue marbles from a kaleidoscope of planetary possibilities. Not younger or smaller but warmer and wetter, these are the states in which life would …
Buried beneath the snow line, these smouldering corpses begin to glow. Forgotten fires, whose reanimated embers burn brightly across the tundra; frozen bodies recoiling at the heat of their undying embrace. Thawed to life by distant warming these undead hordes now straddle horizons; crimson fingers flickering over blue-veined memories, as …
Torn from the sky we clipped your wings to buy safe passage; broken bodies lovingly preserved with a tenderness denied in flight. We stole shadows from the sky then forgot the trickery of our theft; net traps replaced with industrial mistruths of animal husbandry. Chemical fingerprints unmask our guilt; your …
We live on a mesh of invisible lines, the rigidity of attraction softly veiled by the faintness of touch; gentle come-hithers undone by the subtlety of their approach. Invisible guests stand to attention, physical aggregations two-stepping an illusion as straight as the crow flies; its lineal distinction stolen without tribute …
Across tropical concert halls, the air vibrates with the sound of a thousand voices; a living orchestra concealing its decline with the vivacity of each performance. Its muted notes lost beneath the canopy. Guided beyond senses we dowse for inference, amassing microscopic fragments that ripple across the surface; fleeting footsteps …
Beneath mottled shells of dreary, setting suns we bury instruments in living sands; digital treasures to map the edges of existence. Caressing your carapace as we wave you from our ships; deep-sea buoys to dredge the ocean of her tempestuous secrets. Back on land we watch as you coast …
Struggling beneath the weight of accumulation you buckle in the rains; a surplus of backwash baptising you with the filthy discharge of a thousand vanquished drains. Every street and boulevard fades beneath the waves; thoroughfares gasp for breath, the city’s arteries washed clean until they lead to shallow graves. Inundated …
Weighed down by the delights of an afternoon’s jumbled scavenging you zigzag drunkenly across the sky; tumbling through monocultures to the wild abandon of your uncultivated home. Squatting in the corner of Farmer John (or was it Giles)’s field, you hear him exclaim: “Those bees will be the end of …