Trash Talk at the Presser Y’all have to wonder abouttheir affectations of slam champand how they get to dishout the straps these days.It’s enough to make me want todig out my old highlight reels. The way he enters the ringall bug eyed with chest heaving,juiced up to the max with postmodernist metaphors; his treetrunk armsContinue reading “Trash Talk at the Presser”
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Post Match Analysis
Post Match Analysis If you really want to know,ask a dying person she saidsotto voce, while teeming dross bucketed from an embarrassed skyoutside my kitchen window.Sweeping diagonally, deliberatelyas if to make a point;cut through all the crap. While old Hughie pontificatedon the outcome of too manyturn-overs—chances gone begging;no bottle at the breakdown ofplay & let’sContinue reading “Post Match Analysis”
Foul Papers
Foul Papers At times, splinters of lightmight penetrate the darkroom.Sweeping like liquid; churning ontheir solemn trajectory tomingle alongside my gnashingcells like silent hues of algae. Sun-dried and parched beneaththe intrepid blaze of the sun,becoming finely sated like alluvialdust clinging together in bolsters.Only to return under the deepshroud of night, to lay inert withdrizzled shards andContinue reading “Foul Papers”
Crepuscular
Crepuscular Tonight, there will be noreiterating of fictions oranything of the sort. No notes of nostalgia hintingat a seismic shift to coolerclimes elsewhere. It’s a drizzly dusk that entersthe frame at this hourwith it’s sly grating cadence. Tonight, there will be nomoping nostalgia or anyneo-expressionist motifs. Only the damp, pricklyneedling of showers on thedriveway &Continue reading “Crepuscular”
Indicators
Indicators I pass the secondsscanning every letterthat you arrange withsuch inevitability—suchprecise methodical order. I watch them dissipate towards the hollowspaces that gather lightof foot between us. It’s as if you can’t bearthe thought of them existingonly for and of themselves,as I brace myselffor the oncoming season;for your own too familiarbrand of tiresome weather. ©️Orion Foote,Continue reading “Indicators”
Bonus Scene
The rim of her glassis a luminous sphere;a blurred smudge ofmoist crimson glidingdue north to her mouth.It sweeps this lesserGod to another Calvary. I trace from heel toshoulder, shapely linesBergman himself wouldhave made a meal of,would have entertained withchic strokes of chiaroscuro. It’s the perfect dashof flim flam in asudden twist of plot;the way sheContinue reading “Bonus Scene”
Night Memoir
You never know whena word or two might stick;come creeping through an openwindow in these small hours. It’s a nagging of letters,where each tone followsa broken rhythm—void of anyrhyme or reason exceptit’s own shuffle towards a pointwhere one calls to another. It’s mostly artefacts anddriftwood now; spokensotto voce in a mulatto dialectthat is oddly familiarContinue reading “Night Memoir”
Shadow Commentary
The way he extracts datafrom his glazed opponentis a marvel of second sight. It’s all in the knowing what’sto come before the other knows. It’s a cinematic play of sinew andreflex; viewed through thetwin orbital tunnels of hisglassy eyed stare. ©️Orion Foote, 2021
Covert Reconnaissance
The poet’s hat was adept in cerebralmatters; It kept his brain warm.It formed a neat halo around his bonecarved dome & hid his mind from thescrutiny of strangers—shaded hisbrow from the sun’s hot daggers. Over shifts in time he would come to learn,that nothing could ever prepare one for theheated rush, or the cruel disappointmentofContinue reading “Covert Reconnaissance”
Eliot’s Cross Examination
Isn’t it true, that your actions sproutfrom bad nerves & a swarming hive of raging ghosts—tenants of the wetbrain running riot in deep arrears. I wish I could have wrapped you in fine Taipei silk & soft feathers,removed you from the scene of leapingshadows amongst a baptism of winter.Did you suffer by the grubby handContinue reading “Eliot’s Cross Examination”
Visions of Orion Poetry 