3/april/2010

A tree over looks the road

Each branch divisible by itself

Trimmed

Today the sun

Just out of reach

A chorus or songs 

For Stephen Rodefer

the features

                faded

every blue and yellow

forced into the unprime

faces reflected

                in mirrored glass

out in the street

it feels like christmas


James Cummins

m

    e

       l

          t

             i

                n

                    g

with

melancholy

those double-fronted

properties laugh heavy 

at our weariness after         real urban experience

determined us done.

with revelations we scoured famine histories 
while dealing with allegiances mixed and mistaken.

²               look at our empirical scars, 

      they are empty but make for good conversation.

skies disagree and we return humbled to dozing.

inevitably the surrealist seems distant from those anchored to reality: he sits, uncertain, but smiling while contortionists surround him in a show of solidarity.

it is thirsty work.

with four cut rhetoric

we are acid bright

&filleted.

scratch markd

&sober

we fill ourselves with

philanthropy.

in the quest for global parenthood

 we are casual in our devastation.

 we protest with slogans like:

&

  

you,

flying with your mouth filled with lust;

I,

more concerned

  

with malignant little conservatives whose perma-fried propaganda is thought thieving and malicious.

 naturalism is incidental

 with blood

 under my fingernails

 and suspicions that

we are not alone™

We yearn for the optimism of the radical dead from 1967 or 1789,     

and the dread of those exiled dead from 1943 or 44      

(at the inconclusion of history)   

NEVER FORGET THE SINISTER MUNDANEITY OF ASSOCIATION NO2

®                      we can expect terrible suffering

®                      we can expect a terrible death

We wash down “live moths”

with lukewarm milk.

rape is described

 as curiosity on

wincing does nothing they have drawn lines on our behalf & all there is to do is pull  faces indicating our discomfort shrugging as a symbol of impotence in the face of such an organisation.

guardsmen

(in black uniforms)

march past Barna Buddi

without remorse or a sense of history.

In flatlands we dream

of umbrella plans with obsessive detail

as witty kitchen sink vignettes

comfort us all.

deviation makes conspiracy

while my hair shines in the sunset:

creativity is not enough –

childlessness leaves us empty.

  

the beauty of fountains is that they try too hard to be beautiful,

    

much like those faded Edwardian seaside resorts dressed up fancy in the rain,

   

crumbled and cowering under neon lights of cheap & dirty arcades.

   

These enormous skies make us teary,

      leading us to question if 
      marple england really exists.

 Sincere journey of vertical lines,

is your “truth” a complaint?

looking them

in the eye

with manly

authority

and the art

 of rhetoric,

parade your

virginity

with your hair down.

I must have your shapely calfs.

The melodrama of a threatened womb is no match for the proximity of death, mother turned into mermaid deploy your weapon of melancholic beauty

- nineteen years to go ...

gentleman vigilantes

and fingerprints

always on the axe,

§  The crimson petticoats of a martyr,

§  The quiet contemplation of a person watched unknown.

what a way to start –

with a boy that can't be bothered. 

bureaucracy turns tribal

as postcode wars

are televised

and supporters clubs

organised for cage fights

umpired by

affluence has ruined glamour: 

we build yurts

(to make a point about sustainability)

& receive

unending invitations

to gain

three inches.

do young models ever look at Janice Dickinson and dread their future?

you have thirty seconds to answer the question, the sound of the harp will let you know when your time is up.

Rachel Warriner

28/10/2009

Dear –

I wish you were here / singing / like a pianola

On the train / someone waved / in the dinning room

I nearly cried / and found one / four leaf / old white clover

Crossing / Lime Street station / 4.45 / expected any hour

Button / brooch / ring / fibula / string

A few lines / in a moment / spare

James Cummins

New Journal

well worth checking out http://www.gylphi.co.uk/poetry/index.php

breath

close to

heart

freezing

in flames

all the while

engulfed

James Cummins

27/02/09

sight

expelled

in every direction

leaving

James Cummins