Tuesday, 20 August 2013

Poetry

Strange


There’s a painting in my parents’ bedroom 
One of the poorer stories 
From every picture 
An orgasm pinch 
Gold and oily blood 
Behind the words 
An overwhelming sadness envelops me 
I fall in love 
Every time I see it 

Tearless, lachrymose 
Barer mornings with less done 
Intoxicating early bed heat 
No sense of time passing 
Youth does not favour a thinker’s legs 
The sparrows’ feathers are turning yellow 
When fantails aren’t playing with passers-by 
Tapping like a spent cigarette 
And then passing, without a word 
A weekend companion 

Sinking, desperately empty 
Treading through a muddy turf 
Into a patch of white flowers 
Surrounding a graveyard 
The most broken chapter 
In a never-ending story 
About drug abuse 
A red-laced foot 
Sticking out of a burst boot 
That is the extent of our relationship 

Why didn’t you smile at me, stranger? 
I smiled at you. 
What do I get back? 
Why is everybody so sad?

by Campbell Calverley




My Dinner with Post modernism 


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barometric tendrils 
psuedo-random and hybrid sets 
growing like ivy in the clutches of time 
such a 
choking 
but actualising 
grasp 

I too, once, like how you are now, 
was here too 
so very 
very 
present. 
Aha! Oh yes! 
Permit me a mock stifled cry of ostentatious self derision 
'hee hee hee' 
aaaaaahhh 
I really was pitiful back then 
seeing you there now, I feel oh so whimsical and overcome 
with 
ahem 
sorry 
dank and musty cellars 
hashish and a can of beans. 
(baked, not fried, -we were really naive enough to believe that?- ) 
had it all back then, didn't we? 
By which I mean we had nothing 
but the conviction 
that obligation was something that actually meant something 
rather than a Cryptocurrency in a Ponzi scheme 
(with a slice of lemon) 
confidence intervals stockpiled in the stocks of confidence men. 
Derivative markets 
oh so very much so 
so very 
derivative 
idiomatic 
and fucking 
asinine 

still, it does harken to its era, doesn't it? 
'detached and disposable.' 
toothpicks 
limbs 
ideals 
all that 
goodness! 
I was supposed to be offering advice, wasn't I? 
Interpolate up some mediated conjecture. 
But the kids can look after themselves just fine, can't they? 
So our fiscal policy seems to think; 
'I wager we shear up the youth 
to buy shares in implementing youth wages.' 
sorry, I guess it's an antiquated complaint, 
“think of the children!” , they say? 
Can't they see, 
the whole damn market's aimed at the proto-teens?? 
we do it all for them the little snots. 
laissez faire welfare 
hedge or double down? 
A shrubbery? 
Or a bacon butty with bread as bloody chicken and cheese? 
(I just vomited in my mouth a little, 
how pastiche) 

See, and people ask why I’m trapped in the past; 
the future's got me car sick. 
and honestly 
we're just brimming with history 
(the scourge of post-modernity) 
like a black moss spewed on the walls 
Poisoning visions and Rheumatic fever 
tearing up our lovely 
lovely 
pacified 
pay and display 
psuedo 
proto 
posterity 
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Hospitality 


You are recurring, 
effervescent, 
dust on light streams. 

I am elsewhere, 
static, immobile, 
a 30ft depression 
in damaged concrete - 

though still 
we unfurl together, 
lean towards sunlight 
like Japonica’s in bloom; 
you are the coloured iris 
that enfolds my empty pupil, 

you are 
my subtle hue, 
I wish to paint you 
in a surreal saturation, 

absolved in a deep aphasia, 
in a sincerity that breathes between our authenticity. 

Before we leave to write essays on realism, 
come meander with me 
into the depths of profundity.

by Jonte Marshall



Madness


What is this, a disappearing kitten? 
Where are we going? 
All the roads we paint 
end up disappearing, 

and where have we remained? 
Behind our canvas, 

every evening returning 
to our fantasy, 
our speculative realism, 
radical immanence, 
enlightening 

our life splayed out on a plane 
of introspection. 
All these mirrors, these mirrors 
it’s too much reflection - 

super object 
of my perception 
just 
take my hand, 
lift me to the sky, 
lift me to the sky.

by Jonte Marshall




Fresh Paint


she's in the bedroom painting 
her lips red trying to ignore 
the rumpled bed thinking 
about lovers; who'd have 'em, 
hearing his boots pass 
into the kitchen. he's left 
the paint lid off

trailing fumes behind him 
while her fingers deft on 
the lipstick-tube twist, 
there are bracelets like 
bruises on her wrists 
but not from him 

and she wonders how long 
they can sit in this paint- 
filled house, she wonders 
how long it has been 
since she kissed him. 

by Sarah Reese

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