Visions of Orion Poetry

Neon Gravitas

I reach for pools of shapeless
light that fade to dusky hues of
monochrome & magnolia,

as I entertain the hiss of car
tyres on a wet street over re-runs of
indoor vapours & body linguistics.

I reach for muted words that fall
like coastal sleet near the shores
of her mouth, that whispers low
of citrus zing and midnight villanelles.

©️Orion Foote, 2021

Gospel of Elton

His word made good
on manicured keys,
made flesh from throbbing
bass. Baritone honey & gravel
with arabesques stir the
pulse & shake the hearts church,
and where truth be told,
God’s in the house tonight.

©️Orion Foote, 2021

I wonder if you might hear
an answer, when you ask,
what kind of love is this ?
While I stand looking on
towards the carriage from
where you alight, to
undo the tale and ask for
a flame to lessen the dark.

But it’s not really words
that matter much anymore.
I would prefer brandy slurs
or legato shades of light
on sodden pavement, where
you tread with frailty
and thunder—arm in arm.

Where pagan syncopations
cry and turn, as though
time had distilled the frothy
gauze of Guinness with
a song of Glasgow kisses.

©️Orion Foote, 2022

The dregs of the afternoon
light come calling through
heavy velvet, unannounced
of course, but with news
from another room.

His ruddy, waxlike tones
steal the scene, before I
pan across to the tired row
of penguin classics; off white
and orange — centre left.

He’s not long woken
from his siesta; a dream
sequence in which Gorky
had sat in the very chair from
which I’m now his lone witness;
from where I can’t look away,
as he struggles to pull focus
through brimming eyelids.

©️Orion Foote, 2021

Marginalia

The slice and burn
of a bright sized jangle
is the perfect din.

It teases the dead from
their hard won sleep
in these sorry days,

where it seems
only the ruined can
console their own.

Here comes the jittery
part to rattle the cells &
douse the swollen nerves.

It’s a struggle
to the surface when
I can’t recall the facts.

Though I suspect it’s
the echo of a collective
clicking of tongues

firing my inclination
to whittle away the hours
in a fumble of words.

©️Orion Foote, 2021

He says it’s like sculpting

phrases for the tone deaf,

or throwing out shadows

over hard alabaster

for those short of sight.

It’s also a rigmarole;

all this dodging and burning,

being in two minds over

the trajectory of light

or wrestling with arrangements

before signing off

on the key signature.

So it’s back to the

overlapping of acrid chemicals

& remixing the mix.

Knocking back shots as still

life, while slurring cadences

until tones distill.

Until the light leaks in.

©️Orion Foote, 2021