Poems by Alan
The thrush calls a stranger into decline
Locate the hotbird shadow,
here, soon killed at the trees’ rim,
red throat feather, the gulped word.
Zoom Lens the fake sniper,
vacuum glove to the frosted door;
The command prompt still blinking.
Gunsmoke so unlikely so in
fact is not there, redacted,
roundtripped to bitmap and back.
Lie down before the security vehicles,
breathe star clouds inside the visor.
Blood mist, red iron,
Girl Two from School Zero
is frozen on the mound;
Well done Tom well done.
Night the instruments
cannot indicate; love,
blue autumn, homeland.
Drinks for light
Jack I thought we could make
drinks for light. You know I hope
that in the dream bars of the
Valhalla District of Lower Manhattan
during Legendary Hipster Passaggiata
or Fucking Happy Now Hour it’s a
custom of the soigné and the
bibulous to raise their various
uh triangular drinks
to the light such that the light,
stained rose and lemon, deep
bitter orange, aqua, pearl and
spring leaf green, does fall, hang,
shine or otherwise traverse the
bar’s dark interior to hang,
shine, soundlessly to manifest
your perfect afternoon of petals
and amphetamine, torn satin,
oh, flickering slowly. So, shall we?
Acid Folk
Static on the waltzers as;
a sunset reissue depends from the pelmet,
a blood filled blemish on the lip of evening.
Laser etched, the hedgerow silhouette,
the very sky in hock to vodafone
An animate or dream
woven whiplash tendril
curls behind the eye, there,
where the optic nerve
awaits the horse’s hair
torniquet as the scarf
awaits the engine.
This whole sore orbit
is a bag of shock.
The whole head here
is a balloon on a stick
This is WOMAD
I never went or
went as a planet
hovered see above
between the pelmet
and the template
Quorate the ride, the differential
heaves like a black hawk.
The faster, the more silent.
