Maybe you’d be fucked, Daniel,
but I’d be fucking furious if I had to share
a seat next to Vin Diesel’s ego in a passing
shower on the edge of England and Scotland.
When I talk to flowers, I speak only of
bougainvillea and begonia, flowers I hear
hum the morning in check when the death
watch beetle has ground itself into cinnamon.
If all roads bleed to Rome, what shape do the
roads in Rome take? I’ve got veins in the back
of my hand with more dexterity than road maps.
Tulips on each knuckle as melted isotopes.
We live large and die in outer space, counting
the miles to Saturn’s outer rings and watching
in wasted splendour as we pass Anthe and realise
the whole thing is just a big dusty mess.
– Aaron Kent
[A8 is the Gate]
Trouble is dust settles
for less than it should,
might be insecurity or
wood that went round
back in black & white.
Diesel on Hadrian’s Wall,
there’s a line to punch out
the lights of mid-sentence.
Daffodils are good for chat
and taste like lettuce, let us
your roads are shit
we’ve had some fine minds working
to metaphorise your randomness but shit
is the absolute best I can come up with for it
Anthe & Cleopatra,
grab a load of those
we won’t be left
wondering, no sir.
Bit frivolous this
I know. Summer
licks the heat of
try this before out, bro
If I’m troubled by every folding of your skirt / am I guilty of every
male-inflicted hurt? is a line Paddy McAloon beat me to thirty years
ago, when I say beat me to, I mean different ballpark, his arena
grandiloquent, touched in the bleachers by glittery numinousness,
always loved sprouts, different sport altogether if you like, mine’s
more an empty squash court, ha! seeing Paddy and me in competition.
– Daniel Roy Connelly