Composed several miles below the hill in question, upon my bed during Easter. 16th April 2010.

I strode across the quiv’ring fields and yet
saw not a prick of bramble twinge, impinge upon my vulnerable toe;
I could not hear the hissing wind’s echo,
Nature’s Mercury, ambivalent, goes.

Ezekiel and Tarantino tell
of shepherding, tyranny and righteous thoughts
as stray branches they waft in my synapses and indicate action
beyond the shady copse of poetry.

A hare careens, cutting curves in the fog,
absorbed within the safe shape of its fluctuating silhouette;
why can I not amble with such ease?
In the form, the leverets are devour’d.

Better hare than rabbit: I cannot fall
into a form. I still stumble, struggling, grappling with thin arms,
that reach out promisingly and snap.
Static.

Above, the clouds ignore my human husk
and down here there is only stale dirt, alien fingers of moss,
cold stones, insects crawling over
foetal Bones.

Larot sap

The next poem I'll post is the one I'm going to hand in for my uni assignment. I won't post my analysis of it, but here it is anyway. I'm not sure I like it very much, but the whole point was to make it as derivative as possible..

Jonquille

Pale smoke is crackling and seeping into violet clouds,
head fish swirl on the tongues opening silent mouths
in protest against the incessant vacuum lung fire-
lists form on wood scrolling without touching skin
and eyes turn away towards sinking voids.
Your body looks like a conch shell and I post through the gaps
requests. All white in my mind. A fainting sensation pricks up vertigo in my soles
and kicks unexpectedly. Sharp spines curl into French curves
on television there is a man on a unicycle, tipping,
spokes twirling into candyfloss and murdering him.
Churning blood there are bystanders and without announcements
a bee walks by and beyond and instead I am not bored,
grasped by levitation and clawed by feminists I touch soil beside us-
it's pretty. Crippling doubt. Bad taste is not the worst thing that could happen.

Cuntry

You can tell it's desolate
by stepping on my feet,
asking us to move and finding
we're glued.
The lie of us reverberating on piss coloured walls-
it sneaks. The wind is brittle. I can't feel
anything, my fingertips hesitate, shake,
isolate air, cut the fog until it bleeds oxygen.
Heat doesn't even relieve pock marks
blue stark streaks
dirt, celtic.
Your bed high up,
deep voices shouting orders and you follow,
crisp shirt sleeves papercutting and it rings in my orifices:
the ache.
Reaches bodies like jelly, slicing easily
burns it burns without you, Rab.
There's no black. Tiny feet kick skin in the back of my head.
Ask for renewal.

Stones and sticks

I haven't written anything new in a while.. Trust the empty month to be the one in which my birthday sits. I've been trapped in the countryside again- this time writing a pastoral poem at the request of uni- I might post it here. I have been so busy sleeping recently. Vivid dreams all the time. I wish I could thank my unconscious for trying its hardest to fill in the gaps, even if it doesn't understand human protocol sometimes.