Poetry Blog by David Blake

Signorina Gherardini's

prophetic visitations

of a drunk's

medical conference

before film-reels

of attentive eyes.

Franco dubbed

this, one of the world's many crises;

xanthelasma,

as Dylan dreamt of 'Highway Blues'.

There is nothing here

for the common muse

to hammer

a nail upon.

I'd prefer the eyes

on a plate, on the ledge;

newsprint in the cavi...

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I woke from another nice nightmare,

the same one as last night:

calling in a midnight green garden,

sickening spilling envy over

the flower beds

and screaming through locked doors;

the keyhole beyond where

battleships flutter,

lopsided

in some old silent film.

Let me bring the colour to this

disease. Because 

I've brought it in fruitbowls,

and bouquets, and I...

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The bucket of water distorts
the image of the sky when kicked
a mirror stretching into infinite ovals.

In this I am a golden leaf
and the light stretches through me
a ragged parchment in candle-light.

Where the green shadows
intersect with the love we live
I can see a buried garden-

a lazy, hothouse dream
of terracotta and porcelain
and thieves in the night

that went to sleep u...

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