THAT’S ALL, FOLKS.


I knew the breath of the Autumn’s spite and the merry blue of the early sky and I knew in the course of my morning rights and the falling of you and your dying eyes and I knew in the sense of a shivering son that the worst was done and we nurtured  a boy who was shaking with every thought in his head like a knowing of death like a book so misread like a love gone to bed and I knew the time when your face was as pale as the milk dropped at morn like the cows laid aside like the blood bleeting out like the love I had shared and I knew when I saw you all hooked up to things, like the heart when dead sings, like the kisses from kings like the prettiest things — and I knew from the breath of the fluttering eyes, like the naked disguise, like the arms built to fight, like the love of a life - and I knew, I knew, I knew. 

my love liked sweets

he called me “shugs”

he tasted iron rich, sick

sugars from their roots

and from their tips

he loved the deep, rich

bother; with his head 

between my southern 

tips, unwell, un-right, 

but mad enough to 

kiss and kill that child

yes my love, he liked

sweets. he called me

“shugs”, he fucked my

life.

the hole feels numberless

the height seems limitless, I

could climb the stairs (not

wanting them to end) and reach

my final point:

you.

asking my name. 

asking my problems.

asking my adress.

asking if I liked it last time.

“Paradise is for the blessed. Not for the sex obsessed”
This poem is based on my favourite film ever, “If….” by Lindsay Anderson.



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Like a motherless child

I was very impressed

Everything I’d saved

I blew on a courtship

Where did you come from,

Honey?

Like a motherless child

We kept writing poems

For one another

Everything I’d saved

Like a motherless child

We decided it should just

Keep on,

We found ourselves 

getting married

Like a motherless child

I am ignorant to our pledge

Like a motherless child

Preen, preen, preen,

And pride. 

Would it go unnoticed now if I shouted a name and left it 
Ringing around the room? I feel I’d be left fading
into the heaviness of incense-smoked air, pressing me into 
insignificance, whilst we still covet unattainable beauty, golden ratios;
there’s no such thing as a divine proportion, because the 
more concise the angle between an eye and a lip
the greater the horror, the more sedately it seeks to destroy

a fallen angel; first a murmur, then a sigh and then
are rattle-dry 
not even an angel but contorting gambols
gawking at the base of crucifixion.
.
my own ceremony sees me swallowing the sharp anacrusis
that would be preluding into heaves of glittering, black tears
which no beauty or angel could make sense of. 
.
So we turn to solipsism; what if my world was not the same 
as yours and your sighing angel were my chimera? 
and what of our own interpretations of colours and the colours
of feelings or the lack of feeling that terrifies us? As your daw yaws over your 
glistening dawn, my night comes hushing in; the mystic 
night, sooty with cosmic dust bearing the irrelevance of us
and rests on our eyelashes with a silent prescience
as if from a seducing tristesse, but knowing, as she does
that even if as you breathe that post-coital sigh
and shake the dust from your eyes, the vibrating air you
exhale might be part of the shivering of a branch 
or the worrying of a speeding train. 
.
everything was waiting to be seen by you. even as you didn’t 
know a passing breeze had come to soothe you, or music
from a bedroom window didn’t fall uselessly but fell to 
find you - it didn’t seem to, but it did and this is the only way
I can make sense of this, and just like a thought that wanders in - of me - 
might even spend the weekend with you, the same is true
of you and I too curse those who are not bearing the weight 
of reciprocated desire - like your sighing angel and my chimera
both on our backs, falling into one another as we wish 
that we might become the same.
.
and it’s strange to live on this unstoppable earth where angels are 
men and cosmic dust can rest on the eyelashes of Gods and children
and still deliberate the nature of a phone-call
and there really is no point to writing letters anymore. 
.
the eternal chorus will still sing just like the cosmic winds will whirl and worry, the fires will still spit, the universe will still go on to reach the reveries and crescendos of its taunting of our understanding but ultimate knowing that it does not care for us, and our anxious legs will tremble before they run, just as our hands will shake at the thought of death or hungriness or “oh god, he’s leaving me” 
and maybe death is harder than living
and maybe we are worse for fucking
and worse still for giving it a better name
.
and maybe we fear death because the dead don’t need us
and so we’re dead by association but still breathing. 
so in the sweet smoke of perfumed air, the music
will begin and we’ll be lost in what the thickness means
and stare into the void, redundant in our knowing 
that we cannot prepare for what happens when
our trembling legs start running and advancing
unflinchingly into our unknowable futures. 

At corners, dressed or naked, with lips taste

To help us comprehend the magnitude

Time that my eye ached, my heart shook, why.

We hear so much about what love feels like.

Sex on the bathroom’s cold marble counter was best

A woman is something for a night. 
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Song For Connie - Bill Berkson

In The Museum of Lost Objects - Rebecca Lindenberg

Create Desire - Karen Volkman

I Don’t Miss It - Tracy K. Smith

High and Bright and Fine and Ice - Darcie Dennigan

Express Train - Gottfried Benn

this plush inviting toy

is much this fox in song, in

skin, this living thing subsists, is

coition big, obvious in thoughts of 

kissing, flings, its goings-on, thinking

my gist of skin, it sinks, lining, is bit. 

if living this is difficult in infinity’s long 

illusion; this is vision, this is truth, this is 

my pitch to you, to you, to you

kiss this, stick up, cling to jolly things

voicing out my rhythms, this is 

singing, living, thinking - this is 

you, it’s us, it’s us. 

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(letters outlawed are: r, a, w, e and d)

Inspired by Three Figures at the Base of Crucifixion by Francis Bacon. 

the crucified discriminates inside me

i reside, and create the crucifixion

without a chance. i don’t believe 

around the twisted bodies, how they

misuse me and I misuse them

and root for the envy in the blood of

them and they address me. and now

the viewer parades the crucified

watch it slide inside us all, as 

inaccessible as virginity arguing

the pleasure underneath the bloody

peripheral and outright, upright, 

the viewer romances whatever 

phenomenon that keeps the bodies

stretched on canvas moving. 

brutalist and hard

arches scoring; when

will the concrete starve

me? The racing motorway

Persecutes the clay I live on; leaps

and heavy concrete slabs stand upright

for crisis in dead horse, and yet, The north  

lusts for me. 

Still the work of Sian S. Rathore, but accidentally blogged on her personal blog!

okfinewhateverigetit:

welcomed;

sent home

we’re celebrating you

living, 

as you

sigh you aren’t

hurried

a rush

you mightn’t understand

panic

we sickened

a new regime

sleepy

you; comatose

awakened to reality

“beginnings”

another one

and you said:

“desperate

times call

for desperate measures.”