Seismic Songs
An accidental echo on the line oscillates with the baritone of your misplaced song. Waves beneath waves traverse wires crossed with the rising beat of
"this is sixth form poetry, not Keats or Yeats"
An accidental echo on the line oscillates with the baritone of your misplaced song. Waves beneath waves traverse wires crossed with the rising beat of
Fleeing down grassy corridors from whirring teeth that hack at your habitat with ill-managed discipline; this rich mossy canvas spat out as loamy clots, to
The sky is ablaze. Waves of dirty yellows wash over the ground, as crimson smoke licks barren clouds that loiter jeeringly overhead. Fuel
After the accident the forest returned, blanketing forsaken machinery in a gentle, unfamiliar embrace. Stacks of contaminated televisions lie in heaps, repurposed as shelters for
You glide across your silky precipice, Enticed by spasms at the edges of your kingdom; You see nothing, Just a loose thread caught in the
Sailing swiftly along the salted seashore, Your whiteish throat flanks brown streaks That accentuate comedic orange brows. Amongst saline marshes and sunken reeds You build
Your recent absences have become More pronounced; The late spring evenings are no longer Alive with the industry of your approach, And the flowers in
On the night that Titus fell His night nest was not empty, Not empty, but silent. His body still warm, Still warm to receive The
Once they roamed across the plains like gods, Their gigantic frames drowning out the sun As they paraded in quiet contemplation. Jealous of their size
As distant rumblings pierce pastoral air, Each roaming frog recoils without a bound; Mechanical vibrations beat the ground, And conjure up strange feelings of despair.