Become Something Frail, my new collection, is available to pre-order now from Selcouth Station Press or by contacting me directly on here, twitter or by email www.selcouthstation.com @stuartmbuck email@example.com My work has been published extensively in print and online in journals such as Ink, Sweat & Tears, Northampton Poetry Review, The Stare's Nest, Eunoia Review, Acumen, Cultured Vultures, Deadsnakes, isacoustic, Anti-Heroin Chic, Nightingale & Sparrow, Mojave Heart, worktoacalm, RIC Journal, Lost Souls Anthology, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Erbacce Journal, Rats Ass Review, Rhythm n Bone, The Seventh Quarry, Melancholy Hyperbole, Walking is Still Honest, Philosophical Idiot, Horny Poetry Review, Blue Page Lit, Kissing Dynamite, Marias at Sampaguitas, Honey & Lime Lit, Yellow Chair Review, Selcouth Station, Vamp Cat Magazine, The Haiku Journal, The Tanka Journal, SUBROSA, Storyteller, Gambling the Aisle, The Sunflower Collective, Under the Fable and many more. I have been a featured poet on 'Caught in the Net', Poetry Super Highway, artisticechoes and in FIVEPoetry. Shortlisted two years in a row for the Erbacce Prize. One of 12 emerging UK poets chosen to take part in the Bedtime Stories for the End of the World Podcast I also sell some of my art. It is available here - https://www.artpal.com/stuartbuck
jocasta awakens from a dream a breath away from sunrise, she swallows the neon light casts xylophonic slivers on the cardboard walls draped in nothing but a smile she whirls; cyclonic amongst the explosion of monarchs stained glass skippers she holds in her hand some flying free, some crushed beneath bare feet like panic breaths taken while held underwater and when the sun turns up the volume on the day she will open the blinds and let perfection thrash her corneas stare straight in to the screaming mouth of luminescence erupt in to a new day, full of exquisite green hope narcissa and the needles and we twisted through the night you are pale lace quiver so 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 trictophilia 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
All poems are copyright of the originating author. Permission must be obtained before using or performing others' poems.
perfect grass poem (05/06/2019)
sexual apocalypse at the gym poem (24/05/2019)
cosmic fuck poem (10/05/2019)
think back/pink black (22/04/2019)
i am made of water and so are you (02/04/2019)
Amoebius (For National Poetry Day) (21/03/2019)
- symbiosis visual poetry practice (1)
- Performance (3)
- 2015 - 2016 (4)
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