Poems

THE TAXI DRIVER PHILOSOPHER

green under-paints his flesh
the body of the king
jaspe oro y esmaltes
jewelled and blindfolded
assailed by light and milk
the taxi driver philosopher

 

IN AIR

Just half an hour

of loud music
the ipod is cranking out Pixies
while we talk about poetic form.
A getaway, you say, to fill the car
with petrol.

Pull over, turn off the engine
sit in the car like lovers

by now listening
to Elvis Costello’s Shipbuilding.
Stunned emptied by trumpet notes
that linger so bright so hopeful
in air

 

BLUEBEARD

Paler than death I made her sign
and she dying with fear and temptation
so ugly and so terrible

God rents Sunday afternoons
the house trembles for a moment
beautiful and afflicted

A small moment and not a moment more
though she may go everywhere but may not enter
- that key is just withdrawn from the door

While I walk like a sailor over a deck
that is a live and curdled thing
slick with the slow slosh of the bilges

Anne, my sister Anne, don't you see anything coming?
Anne, my sister Anne, don't you see anything coming?

Why is there blood on this key?

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