Weekend Poetry: Spiders, and other poems

mountain sorrel

Someone called Sorrel
is mapping the mountains of the world
but she's not sure if the phrasing
is a little awkward? Maybe?
A certain broadcast corp. might want certain ranges name-checked;
and I think
how kind of the pronated media
to consider the feelings of landmasses.

It's swell to sit - oh, busy bustle of Friday forests,
in exhaustion fug
labelling climates of woodland.
An overarching branch under which to include subsets.
I love these phrases, I want to talk about the needs
of temperate and intemperate, and

The word 'tranche'!

No! Not contracts. Keep on about the Forests!
Give me green havens divided into assiduous...

walks away. Oh you.

This day has become again
concrete. You've taken away
your sentient shrubs. On two trainered feet

your meeting has removed itself

(no, pigeon, her programming
does not care for you)

the rye

Sophia picks up dirty coins
and lays them out 
on the tree trunks
she passes.

Husk-pierced, a fickle ethical overcoat
fissured under a tenderized head.

A metallic taste tips her fingers
traps her intention between branches
in an empty account of herself.

Spit lands on the pavement
and she wishes she were more arrogant.
Her past smells like wood-shavings

and honey – clear ambergold
not thickset.

Stripping her fingerprints
with a lighter –
anonymous, illusory
like her beginning.

Mucus, clear ambergold,
not thickset, tickles her left nostril.
She waits for the hairs on her upper lip
to trap it. Sniffed resistance
and the back of her hand.

She’ll go to the Ballet
and watch dancers, who don’t leak,
leap and soar
and spin

at home Sophia will inhale the sour milk
that sits in the unplugged fridge,
smiling at the idea of little creatures
knowing the reason
and knowing enough.


Trip lucid loose lids for going on and on
when where I have been seems faded.

Been inside India in pages.
Been at French smoky cafés reducing my Gambling addiction
using Sartre’s clever how-to guide.

Been full of gas and patting self on back for each puff not taken.
Just holding on to sense that

ALL SOCIETY does not own my values and
ALL SOCIETY cannot tell me I need romance.

Oh but loose morals show a lack of character, Charlotte.
I char’l‘notte be aching with desire for much longer
I can tell you.

Can I tell you I lost a day?
Maybe two if you must count the day I recovered.

Each window frames a widow
and I killed so many spiders cleaning the garden table.

I said ‘sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry’
over and over and ‘sorry’ because they’d done nothing.

And on some level I know that will count.
And on some level I know I’m continuous.
And on some level I know I can lie better
but I don’t seem to want to.

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