(for slow connections)

Posted in poetry with tags , , on September 18, 2017 by malartart

those that Apologise

cant spel for fook

those that decide against deicide

allow Megatron to

run amok

it’s not about whether

cats dream, but whether they dream

more than dogs

in my garden Tweens ‘tween the marble purr

and concrete gasp the grubbs’ reticent deferral

one fine hair and here we go

control

over board

down the hatch

(on a hot tin roof and in a boxcar, Willie)

and who’d hold on to that?

Because are our hands similar in size?

Can I touch your face

Whilst you close your eyes?

Can I watch you while you rest?

 In bed?

In peace?

In death?

Not so innocently we say it’s a one-night stand

But we both know it’s an ongoing 45 year old plan

Graciously

Gravely

Gloriously

Naively

Thought I knew all about you and what you do

And what your opinions are and what you have to say

But I don’t— I still feel new to all this so I better

Plug myself in and stay connected

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Archosaur (Fashionable Optimism)

Posted in poetry with tags , , on September 3, 2017 by malartart

They waited until I was extinct before they named one after me

When she said creativity was like the ocean

It wasn’t a description but a warning

She saw the shark deep dive, as well as the

Black Boned Fish in the cage

Tunes of blue and green

Muses G O’K

Salt water

Saturates

and

Infects

the Eardrum

Without anyone actually noticing anything of any kind, anytime

Ok, you can stay with me but you must promise to paint me a pineapple

The Fruits of your Labour are a recognisable must

It’ll muss up your hair and burn your pubes from the thrust

Yet no dirty bomb will go off and we will not conceive to fuck

Because companions last longer on a leash

The contents in the codicil I think you’ll be more than happy with

I know you weren’t in it for the bread, I’m sure at that you’ll blush

But I loved your innocence, for when I travelled

 In circles, on outsides,

Through the city’s backside

Over landslides

You held my canvas and washed off my brush

 

Moth Ball

Posted in poetry with tags , , on August 25, 2017 by malartart

Tunnel to light

We are now second sight

Substance over style

Tonight fly moon-high

I am the Blackest Butterfly

Your spirit animal totem

Not a Tiger nor Deaths Head

But an Emperor in loco parentis

Cough Drops

Posted in poetry with tags , , on August 25, 2017 by malartart

To cough is to find fire in you;

Sky as I, sublime with red

Resentment

The slow dive,

           This brimstone resets

Complain, but it will never ever settle

Place clouds across the room as you do;

Vent as I walk, without you

                      The room is transparent

Time: so we went to bring it down

                                                 On/ off

I’m through being fired at;

Cross back to the coal we bring

 Job hire for intense silence, another wants late wings

You the dusty onto carpet place and time alike

I dangle the baby over the veranda

                                 Words remain listless when horizontal

un-dropped & against the down

Posted in poetry with tags , , on August 17, 2017 by malartart

today someone told me I

looked like death

now I’ve never felt so alive

you-phoric

Posted in poetry with tags , , , on August 9, 2017 by malartart

blesses come in prides like

lions

nod to kids to calm with

wine

toddlers fall like drunken

villains

childish debris tips up and

debilitates

exaggerated/ over the top/ far too much/ more than enough/ ‘It’s complicated’/ she heard him say/ ‘it should never have turned out this way’/ articulating words/ with hands waving/ a neon question mark/ above his head/ so she finally gave in/ ‘I know I knew that I then saw what you said/ got high off being near the thoughts sitting in your head/ put my hands together as if in prayer/ with eyes closed I’m hopeful you’re still there/ my breath is erratic/ my hands tremble/ my heart beats like a steel drum/ with stained and unfortunate echoes/ then I finally open my eyes/ to see you’ve gone/ but I remain          you-phoric’

Ready Or Not

Posted in poetry with tags , on August 2, 2017 by malartart

She is a matador

He is a bull’s head resplendent

Red is a flag that thanks their ships

And tempts with a French kiss

To crash off shore and penetrate with anchors

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