Poetry Blog by Stuart Buck

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Stu Buck on shedding velvet in monochrome/a field in england (Mon, 26 Nov 2018 04:08 pm)

elPintor on shedding velvet in monochrome/a field in england (Thu, 22 Nov 2018 01:04 am)

Martin Elder on shedding velvet in monochrome/a field in england (Wed, 21 Nov 2018 10:54 pm)

Stu Buck on shedding velvet in monochrome/a field in england (Wed, 21 Nov 2018 03:30 pm)

Wolfgar Miere on shedding velvet in monochrome/a field in england (Wed, 21 Nov 2018 06:08 am)

Martin Elder on of womb and wither (Mon, 8 Oct 2018 08:29 am)

Stu Buck on of womb and wither (Tue, 18 Sep 2018 09:59 am)

raypool on of womb and wither (Mon, 17 Sep 2018 08:55 pm)

Graham Sherwood on of womb and wither (Mon, 17 Sep 2018 05:58 pm)

Hannah Collins on of womb and wither (Mon, 17 Sep 2018 05:55 pm)

shedding velvet in monochrome/a field in england

the cutting of blood force the fawn from the rock to red below 

something of enormity amongst the will-o whispers of the forest

now comes frottage come rub against the vastness  feel alive

through waxen shame come write the past with blade and blow

watch the velvet shed through crimson feel the carnage drop rivulets

staining matted fur punch through afresh a green a blank a mass


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of womb and wither

the first a face a tantric paste a bookend of lights one electric and waspish

stinging eyes not yet fully open the other an orgasm a tickertape parade

that ends with something incomprehensible      its duality you see

there are parties for the friends your mother begged to come round

there are parties where you piss yourself and everyone drinks and drinks

because you are dying and s...

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a stain to never fade

entry picture


become red for me become the softness of my mother

before i was hoisted out by the shepherds crook into light

and exhaustion  become frail for me become something

perfect a fresh cut emerald each facet reflecting that patch

of skin on your wrist that makes you shudder when i wet it

with my spit       and when you fell it happened in still life

the arc of the wine glass throu...

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Gendai-Haiku for Barry Chuckle

To me.

To me...


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tom waits and an infinite softness

we were sat around the table discussing things that matter like global warming and politics when I suddenly became very aware that I was there which might sound funny but sometimes you can be somewhere but not really be in the moment just be inhabiting the space physically but this time I was really there my body my mind my spirit all in line all attuned to the conversation  to the feel of the lea...

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what it was

it was fireworks and it was scotch lifted from craig’s mums special cabinet and it was the knowledge that she knew she knew and he would not soon shift the bruising and it was sat on the kerb passing the bottle and it was telling your mother you had gone to meet a girl at the cinema and it was her smile and she knew but she was post-war helpless and it was holding hands in the puff of smoke cold a...

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keep yourself warm

for scott hutchison


I hope the water was the comfort you craved

as you waded out in to the firth of forth

with no alarm set for the new morning

and that when the pricks of pain hit your heart

as the slate swell embraced you in the way we could not

that you turned up to face the lights

and in that last panicked gasp

you saw the sky falling to meet you


we cant ta...

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crown shyness


Abraham told us to come again

next year when the sky would

pother with ash from the fires

because right now we could not

see the stars just the faceless

children playing basketball on

the streets and you know they

never miss a shot so we spent

the year in our tiny homes with

aggressive mould coating the

walls and the things we gave

names to like Table and Lamp


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it is a sphere

after Newfound Planets


i have discovered a planet

a peach bruise cloud scoots sweet along the sky

now visualise the starshine spatter like pastels

and a drop that drips

then drops again

and ‘piffs’ in the kiln baked apricot dust

sending up a whisper of dirt.

we have discovered a planet

it is a sphere of awful seas and glaciers that move…

…at their own pace. perha...

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the fawn

something soft fell to the earth that night

still warm from descent, chalk on slate

the sleep abandoned heard the faint hum

the damp leather crack as it hit the island

pulsing, the colour of ripe corn and battery yolks

the smell of june drop fruit and charcoal

from its bowels crawled a single, white fawn

all teeter and stumble, dripped with mucus

from the throat of a child,...

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he must be full by now

once her daughter had called her beautiful so she wore it like silk

with a smile of clarified butter that smokes in the pan

the second before the heady pits of cumin, mustard

and cardamom hit the tarnished copper,

release their muddy fragrances in to the kitchen that now

is made up of the man who took her ocean away

every surface a split lip smile, windows flecked with spittle


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tabitha and the lawn

when tabitha died the whole street lit up like a neon wilderness

the birds fluttered crazy in the ghost trees and around the roofs

the small, simple man from the corner house opened his mouth

and from it poured radiance the likes of which we had never seen before

a creature moved in to tabitha’s place, something mossy and revolting

we called it the lawn because it had patches of gra...

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dramamine blues

notice: the dirty light through the window is picking out

the melanotic filaments that runrampantinthecorneroftheeye(s)

fixed on an upturned shoe its sole smeared

with shit notice: every book i own tells a story

but not one book tells mine notice: can we blink

through that something that the sun bakes in to our eyes notice:

all the gifted people are asleep on the floor dreaming


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folds of lace

[like winter smoke]

[like quires of tear stained parchment]

sit heavy against the ruddy


of the shabby white van

[there are some noises she cannot hear]

where the man with the limp

[like a pirate she thought at first]

[[still young]]

will drive her to the trees

to touch her again

through winter tears

through folds of lace [like smoke]



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me and Annie (or is it Annie and i) (or poem which succeeded a period of time in which i only read e.e. cummings)


(in my sixty years)

was there One

(in my


slate grey



that felt




than yOu

(just dOn’t




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