By | 1 August 2017

the breeders of night’s royalty are out | stepping the pavements | talking to

cars | to the Antarctic night | people don’t complain | don’t soil their mitts

on hills stretched tight | i’m described as a seizure in words | an overused

product | a tribe-torn society | i live in a mercenary’s dugout by the sea | &

often the morning’s the great spoiler spinning into the eyeballs of revellers

caught out in the sun | i play blind man’s buff in the fog | i grab my share

of the industry | there’s much to put on display | to be repeated | enough

for everybody to feel their eyes watering | to satisfy their requirements |

the individual smells of old clothes old furniture | this crowded house | this

theatre of place | of re-enactment | of cramming excitement into a gap | it

animates latent luminaries | flames from candles fizz into a tide’s still

reflection | i ignore why i’m here | my hands sketch winter mythologies

of orchids | white geraniums | a grapevine muscled in a trellis | i tag

my garden with labels | i’ve written of love’s pictured pedestal in a

ghost story | my hands fondle the smoothed-off intersections of a

tower’s crystal skull | today | this green horizon shifts its lofty peaks

its jagged ridges | today | people watch this maternal colossus crawl

on all fours across broken ground | her breath warming its hidden depths

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