Banshee
The moon slips, a milky angle, transpiring a foetal obsession
and with my back, I give and with my front, I smirk,
bent like a spoon, a hamstrung spouse,
cold in the air, and without reason, I
make tracks, dipping my bareness in the silver,
agitating the organic with a sterile certificate.
I am a coarse tangent until muted
and my hair hisses, without porcelain. I beat my head
on basins
reaching through glass, to tip the pale,
drunk with red sentences, and cackling branches
cruise my skin. There is no harbour here, no
ordinance, save for the fox’s breath, slapping my thigh
with conscience
and Rubix regenerated limbs for your garden,
vexed by my wild eyes,
wail in the shape of the moon, gloved.
Antony Owen
Thu 11th Mar 2010 13:20
Some good raw imagery particularly the last line of S1 which stood out. Its good to see a writer envoke vivid yet thoughtful portrayals of language in a kind of narrative fashion.