For breakfast I eat up my vowels, my a e i o u, to which I add from consonants a fricative or two;
After that I move my bowels then write as poets do, and frequently am quite surprised to feel a trill come through.

Sunday, 6 May 2012


Beneath the foam the blades
cut seaward, and constellations
sparkle in a hair-spray mist 
between the mare's tail wake
and mirrored cirrus skies.

Bare feet raised to breeze
upon the rails, he sees anew 
old ankles blotched and bloated; 
epiphanies passed in a daily shave’s
myopic view of jowls and wrinkles, 
masked in faces pulled 
beneath the foam and blade...

he looks away
to nod goodbye to Samos
and the horse, high on stilts,
pretending to be cloud

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