The running of the bulls
down gullets dusted with olive oil,
Hemingway chews hungrily
on the tail of the slain creature.
Plenty of garlic, a dash of Navarra grape,
the colour of Picasso’s dreams.
The birds circle on
a Ferris wheel in a
In miniature, they
look like great eagles forming
knitting pattern pearls
Light patches of white
sky, seeing is believing,
enthral the storm clouds
Turner seas in swells,
God is moving furniture,
all is lost it seems
The Sun is a ghost
making shadow puppets
out of burnt arrows
I have sewn a safety loop into my
flesh to be used for fastening hinges
inside my blood cells. The tubes, feather dry,
sugar my rose-hip tea, the milk syringe
howls into the clunking machine midnight.
Might I go outside in the bone orchard?
Young jowl roots coloured yellow, the old white
imagination, slugs on the morbid
nettles. A killer on the honeysuckle
noxious in the healing of the limbs, an
abattoir staring up at a petal
rasping a last breath before I guzzle
divorce, swallow divergence and red wine.
Severance, sable dust is my bloodline.