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A Prophet Bread bag in hand, the pigeons flap to me;A Prophet by ~venturus
a foehn of feathers. Best to moisten the crust
so it slides down easy, dipped in the lake,
dough balls palmed out, I don't mind the looks
when the flock clatters round, my winter coat,
clink of blue and green bottles, my sanity.
Then, house calls. Each neighbourhood,
leafy or council – it's a state of grace
welcoming a stranger. Let them think you're
doing them a favour. 'Prophet,' they say –
I insist on the title – 'is it true a perfect bullet
has been made, one that can pierce ...?'
'Hush.' Back home, hollow, pethidine shots,
this business is a test of nerve,
Mayday A chalked hopscotch of leopard headsMayday by ~venturus
the first hint, as all over the capital
police clashed with artists, some
mere teenagers. 'Where were
the parents?' demanded Jo Hicks,
from the shell of her paint-bombed
bakery. As daylight thinned,
mosaic cups, a Bacchus crew tag,
sprang up in parks and shopping malls.
Jumped at Bow by feral bards,
lawyer Tim Poynter tells,
'I'd never heard anything like it.'
Elsewhere, an OAP was treated for shock,
after mistaking for a phone box
a replica: papier-mâché.
And perhaps most seriously,
a boy was surrounded, blindfolded,
and assaulted with performance poetry
until
The Handshake Budget movie fodder, broke,The Handshake by ~venturus
I've taken to summoning devils.
You're like us, a bright star in thrall
to gravity, they say, extol cocaine,
gun-and-girl plotting. Nine-to-
five fugitive; professional dreamer.
Dexterously their tongues flick
and work. You never know
whom the camera will love.
I would relate a time of trials,
the precipitate face which those
obscured or ruled out are climbing.
I who have summoned devils and
conversed with them, pulled from
a telephone booth today a card
with my name on it, and yours.
Will we collect our dues alone?&
flamenco Descending at Embankmentflamenco by ~venturus
Today Is A Good Day
a billboard affirms
doors slam, we rush down
the black line rocking,
half asleep, deep under
halt; we'll have to walk
to the cavern which is
water-logged, lichen-lit
at its heart an island,
where in scores, flamingos
hoot and strut the pebbles
cold webbed soles on my face,
a trickle of droplets.
You Were Good This morning in the mirror,You Were Good by ~Swep-Lovitt
Your full, red mouth's lipstick
Impressions. One on my neck,
Two on my chest. Each
Centered by a purple bruise,
Where you sucked my blood
To skin's surface. I won't
Wash off these vestiges, dressing,
Will finger them all day.
Does it, my taste, linger still?
A Ceiling Bas-relief (the Fontaine House) 1.1850. To typhus, the only boyA Ceiling Bas-relief (the Fontaine House) by ~Swep-Lovitt
of a tinsmith, lost. Off to the side
of the mourning, swinging its
neck, the child's pet swan rejects
food, follows its small master.
The smith resumes work. Borne
by river Natchez to Memphis,
across years he labors, ornamenting
the homes of the wealthy.
In 1870, to this house, comes...
2.Atop a scaffold, face uplifted,
Kneeling. He applies
A thin base. An oval frame
Molds. Hands floating,
The curved outline of wings
Forms, feather by feather
Details.
Su Tung P'O Starting at dawn, zigzagging upSu Tung P'O by ~Swep-Lovitt
Mt. Shozan, at a narrow pass
A web blocks the path. Sun through it
As through silk, at the web's
Center, a calm, jewelled spider.
Moments pass; tingling
He turns. Re-routes his way.
Later, by his brother's fire,
The wine jars that had been full,
Light, he thinks to the spider,
Wind thrumming its web,
The moon full in all eight eyes.
Jay Acorn wedged between bone feet,Jay by ~Swep-Lovitt
In awkward rhythm of white-tipped
Blue tail, there, he precisely
Brings his point of beak, and again,
Again, piercing down; now,
Meat the color of old mustard shows,
And the big head tilts, the crest
Lays flat, the slick throat shuttles.
His bright eyes dart quickly about.
If he had hands he'd rub his belly.
flash your witch-eyes,
stare to sleep
Sta.sh
