The Acrobat


The petrified fingers of an acrobat,
four thousand metres from the ground,
querying: will you catch me?
Of course, of course. I take no pleasure
in carnage, at least not the B-grade version.
With openness comes lassitude –
there are so few poets these days.
Faced with another empty room,
we’ll make fire from the tinder of church pews
if need be – broken over our knees.
The parameters are jellied now,
the junctures not quite so absolute.
In the wrestler’s stance, the dance,
the dance – the opportunity
to be body slammed in pursuit
of orgiastic annihilation.
Masochist seeks monkey grip.
Muscle memory. Eating down
the mud beetles, mercurial
and silt-enriched – sandy mouthwash
sinus mud. Bloody melting
on the beachfront – the exhausting
cyclical regurgitations
of metal, greasy oil-slicked metal;
high-pitched like the robot voices
of automated children – to flight!
On the shoulders of Wright brothers,
a human shot-put into a gracious
nothingness. Blank as buttery
smears of Hollandaise on newspaper
pages at the breakfast table; tea leaves
filtering like autumn light,
like the disintegration of artifice.

The IKEA Squids of the Apocalypse

IKEA Squid

A squid-shaped clothes peg contraption I bought from IKEA
sways like a chandelier against the sulking ashen
day. Sprung pincers, like upside-down ‘A’s,
dangle beneath plastic tentacles, holding
only a bikini, as if it had eaten a mermaid
save for her brassiere. (Too chewy). Murderous
as the day feels: sucked clean of beauty,
flesh. The IKEA Squids of the Apocalypse,
closing in. No choice but to barricade my doors
and windows and huddle behind a mattress with
a shotgun, quoting bible passages.
Either that, or take the laundry in.