Poetry Blog by Stuart Buck

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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trichophilia

I brush her hair in the pale butter sun

that paints the tops of the grass on a

bluegrass june and she looks like a kramskoi

siren in whispered lace the edges of which

just hint at movement, of milky calf and

powder, and we sit there in silence until

the sirens begin to buzz like cicadas in the

distance and the blue pulse washes over me

like a knife blade or a terrible dream...

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narcissa and the needles

and we twisted through the night

your pale lace quiver

out here no one noticed you were thin

that your forearms were an atlas

a topography of bruises from the pricking

as I lay, you whirled above me

and I swear i could see the stars right through your skin

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the cannibals lament

for roberto canessa 

 

and when the plane crashed and the fire died

and the food ran out and the search was called off

they lay little strips of their dead friends out on the green wing

of the airplane and each person stepped up one by one

and no one watched, no one dared intrude

on something that was almost sacred, almost holy

but you could eat, if you wanted you could eat

...

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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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park

I’d wait for you outside the happy shopper

wearing my tatty duffel coat with the huge fur hood

holding a bag of aniseed balls and a panda pop

until you finished work and came to get me

and we’d ride on your bike until we were sure

no one would know us and we’d sit on the bench

in the park while the day spoiled and everything

got cooler and you’d put your arm around me like

...

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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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a new anhedonia

my first real kiss was with a man I did not know

who took his pants down while I cried    and

held me up against the wall

behind the shops             I was nine and

I felt him against me

as he taught me my body was for giving

to whoever was saddest              angriest

and that night I ran home to my mother

thinking of the softness of his tongue

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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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seventeen children

blood like spilt milk

coats the floor but

it’s not the amniotic blood

that signals a purple life

it’s an exit wound

a splinter of bone

it’s walking hand in hand

like a snake across a schoolyard

cursed, like the serpent

not to crawl on its stomach

but for stomachs to crawl

here is my best friends face

jawbone peeking, so

lord, let mother nature

spread her l...

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i shall be dumped where the weed decays

as i walked in the hot kiln sun

i saw two men sat beside a haiku pond

complete with emerald-pad lilies, swollen frog

and blossom that pinked as I approached

one man was made of screeching flesh

he dangled a fishing line in to the cloudless water

he made my thick, warm blood harden

with swollen cock against my pork fat cheeks

he did not catch a thing but shame

the other m...

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van

folds of lace

[like winter smoke]

[like quires of tear stained parchment]

sit heavy against the ruddy

[rust]

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)

never

(in my sixty years)

was there One

(in my

hissing

slate grey

eyes)

 

that felt

mOre

beaut

iOus

than yOu

(just dOn’t

tell

yOur

mOther)

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