Grant Tarbard

Pamplona Gut



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

polysyllabic sky


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.


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