Your Song is My Song It’s a wrap at the Chinatownshindig – they’re painting starsabove Beaumont Highway tonightwith high-viz neon sparks. It’s all light frou-frouswith laughing gas & smoke,embroidering the black shroudwith on the fly calligraphy. Between narrow slitsof a wooden shack,a lambs eye is squinting through celestial vapours.Stupefied by black tarand brandy, a manContinue reading “Your Song Is My Song”
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Autumn Trinity
Autumn Trinity(Three Haiku) Your rabid fire songfades in yellow echoesof withered sad hues. I sweep charred embersof warm smiles to crisp four winds;knowing time runs true. In subdued transit,we bathe in quiet longing;pine for scorched kisses. ©️ Orion Foote
Rewriting his Plaque
On Rewriting his Plaque Three weeks shyof a neat three score,I come to your river pewin midday’s yellow blaze. I wait for the trillof the rivers song;for arms of valley hillsto wrap around me,like pale limp flesh, that oncedraped across my ribsin morning’s wondrous lightthat yawned through waking curtains To eavesdrop on grating cicadasin shamelessContinue reading “Rewriting his Plaque”
Editing Natural Selection
Editing Natural Selection I secretly enjoy the rigmarole:it’s like self medicating on words after arcane dental work,or playing devil’s advocatefor a mixed marriage betweena CNN reporter & a Russian diplomat. I’m bent over foul papersat three in the afternoon – shufflingarbitrary shorthand symbols,until it’s time to tango; time to startdropping liquorice in the snow. AtContinue reading “Editing Natural Selection”
Dying in Third Person
Dying in Third Person He doubles as despatch rider.blazing in with grim omenssquirming inside satchel’s womb.2B pencil droppings – those fadedby the furore of fiery light,mix with those of a darker ilk;not for the eyes of another. When the chosen appear aboveechoes of fire & morning bells,he reaches for sidearm & scissors;spares no expense ofContinue reading “Dying in Third Person”
Chinese Brandy
Chinese Brandy (for Mary) A company of cicadasmake their entry on cue,chatting with the slow surgeof wind music – pushing insmall waves over the surfaceof oak leaves whispering like Cantonese chimes. It’s as good a place as anyto wash up—the last lightshe’ll ever see shoots througha backroom window with a softlanding on pressed white linen.Continue reading “Chinese Brandy”
Stewing in North Tawton
Stewing in North Tawton Borges was underwhelmed byOphelia’s latest efforts; wasn’tin the mood for her taut gibberishof Gestapo knickknacks or swollenpink tulips in Caesar’s bathhouse. Her clammy fingers hammer awayat infinity; blubber and grate at thisheathen hour of day. They make hisfrontal lobes wince like a clapped outdartboard at the local corner pub. He rattlesContinue reading “Stewing in North Tawton”
Visions of Orion Poetry 