ℭ𝔲𝔱𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔪𝔶 𝔥𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔰 𝔬𝔫 𝔰𝔥𝔢𝔩𝔩𝔰
𝔄𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔯𝔶𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔱𝔬 𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔫 𝔰𝔞𝔫𝔡 𝔱𝔬 𝔭𝔢𝔞𝔯𝔩𝔰
𝔏𝔬𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔶𝔬𝔲

ℑ𝔰 𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔭𝔭𝔦𝔫𝔤 𝔟𝔞𝔯𝔢
ℑ𝔫𝔱𝔬 𝔞 𝔤𝔢𝔩𝔦𝔡, 𝔟𝔯𝔦𝔫𝔶 𝔯𝔦𝔳𝔢𝔯
𝔚𝔦𝔱𝔥 𝔞𝔫 𝔬𝔶𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯𝔟𝔢𝔡 𝔣𝔩𝔬𝔬𝔯

|PART THREE|
THE EMPTY SECOND
BECOMES AN
EMPTY SPACE
When it’s all over
forget about courtesy,
grab hold off a shooting star
and ride it all the way
until the photons say the
last word with a pulse of light


The man is no longer doubled over and
Observable from the window
As a result of his fifty-eight years
the equation of his life
All comes to zero
Whilst the mocking ticking and tocking
Of an old clock knocking minutes like
Nails into the wall—

He disappeared in a puff of smoke,
The ice in his glass melted and the woman picked it up,
Drinking it in a single gulp, the glass comes down as if
Magnetically drawn to the floor, the floor,
Where she lies silently and stretches her body
To get some release, she rubs her face against
The carpet, nothing matters except the next second,
Eyes, behind a blink or two, dart to another part of the empty room
She couldn’t think any further ahead than a second at all

And the zodiac crashed open
the ram sent stars flying
the crab snipped the string that suspended the stars
mars took some flak
and finally the sun was burst
by the horned goat
and aquarius held it
like the final fluid sphere

Stars, burning across the sky like the striking of a match
Those wishing on shooting stars
couldn’t decide what they wanted
many of them flying as there were

As well-known monsters
Weighed down by human hope,
clear out our night sky,
Leaving not a freckle to observe
Telescopes now point into bedroom windows
Shadows portray a sort of life,
Shadow puppets depict death through
Tragedy and lapses in timekeeping and
Obsessions with vanity

Life spends some empty second
Inside your lungs,
Continues on it’s way
To resuscitate a slowly fading knife attack victim
Or shake the hand of a minute,
Time is ticking laboriously by

The light, motherless and lost,
Spat out at as the sun was burst,
It looks up to see
the unveiling of the universe,
Finally,

the oyster swallowed the sea.




*—I didn’t want to be a poet by any means. After what happened working on the lifeboats I couldn’t go near the sea, so in a way I chose which parts of it I wanted and wrote about them. It terrifies me and fascinates me at the same time. I fully believe I will return to it only as ash...

a series of quatrains*

Anchor’s bound for hell as it falls
Sadly I watch the fast rope slip
It is gone, I need a strong sip
From a sailor’s bottle, land calls

In a boat, earth and moon move you
these deceptive cargo ships hide
the stash of smugglers, I choose
To rock back and forth with the tide

Such fearless ships save lives at night
and daytime too but not for thanks
for it also ferries heartbreak
when lovers part on boarding planks

A message in a bottle lost
was found on a cold Cornish coast
The message read “darling please
know my love will swim across seas”

I daren’t live by sea much longer
Oh! what I’ve seen, fear gets stronger
with every lapping slurp I hear:
the drowned whispering in my ear

Once I fished in this bay of shells
My line was frayed from reeling sharks
A blue whale fought me three miles out
In his bowel I awoke at last

Boat or ship? For now ‘ships’ they fly
A rocking chair, without duty
They float, enchant, sink but don’t cry
shipwrecks are a thing of beauty

I chanced upon an old letter
That had clearly sailed legless on seas
Crumpled, damp but inside the envelope:

Intelligible writing by sight
But by comprehension I was lost
Disorientated and sea-sick.

Sometimes you come across
an object, and in no way
can you explain its origin,
it’s purpose, or the frame of
mind of the person who last
encountered it,

The letter was dry and slightly
smudged but the envelope (and stamp)
could not be made out at all

I could not send it back
If I could I would be lost for
words, as it seems they were in ways:


...and I have little leaves, I love you and I miss you so much.
When he finished the day in the ocean waiting for you to choose from Aserahosov read our son and apricot. My shirtsleeves damp in your memory. Our subject is expected later to the rest of the flight path of the earth ready to kiss a little faster on the planet.
I broke a strong bird while I like the cakes, I break the strong current. Love my *** I strongly flow. It has been Pecan pie is to say...

My understanding of romance is minimal
But to have leaves seems morbid
Even more so than the breaking of
the bird...
Why should a bird get hurt in this
gross courtship?
and a strong one too,
what act of love can break
anything but a heart?

I like the cakes, I break the strong currents

Perhaps the words of someone rushing
Across oceans in the name of love
Slicing through the chunky waves
But the cake is a bit out of place
Surely no one would rush across oceans
Wide and rough and restless
For a cake that was simply ‘liked’
This must all be a prank...

This one then—

Love my *** off I strongly flow…

Now, I hope the flowing is another
Nautical reference, it would tie in nicely
With the breaking of currents-
I cannot comment on what precedes it
There is much I cannot discuss
In this disgusting letter, I wish
I had not been given it.
****.




*—If I were a seahorse, I know that just being a seahorse would be enough...

A Cornish sunrise
is spoiled by bleating tourists;
I enjoy the sunrise
with all but my eyes.

As sure as God is sifting out the chaff
and with mathematical certainty...
my listlessness is becoming an issue.
A fist is shaking at me again,
but I’ve stopped looking at faces.

I reach for a book, not to read,
but to straighten my posture,
by opening it in my lap.
I hear sailing boats
always, living here, the constant
boom swing and rattling of cheaply
made metal clips and whipping ropes.
I hear the negligence of novice sailors
and their secret wishes to accidentally
lose their family on the rocks.

I hear the sound of life jackets
hanging on their pegs whilst
skinny kids think that
the sea is just a big blue
bouncy castle.

I have observed how things
can go very wrong;
I was a lifeguard and then coast
guard working for the RNLI.

Now I try and enjoy the sunrise each
morning but the noisiest of tourists are
walking around in groups of
foghorn and sheep’s wool
and warning us of nothing
— so loudly.

They’ve closed the lighthouse
and the docks, ship don’t
come here anymore.

Just these novice sailors
who, with unerring instinct,
sink for the weight of their
masculinity
or lose a crew member
or be pinched painfully by a crab.
Their kids ask: How do boats float?
They ask that as their life jackets
swing on the peg

— the seas are not calm today.

Though tried his level best, to pry open
the tough oyster with such might,he gets
just a glimpse of the smile of the pearl
so rare within. which clearly indicates
it's liking; love for  light than darkness

But the oyster,  so adamant, refused to part,
it jealously holds the pearl enclosed,within,
along with the bitter taste left in his mouth,
he learns a precious lesson, in the way worst possible.

A great one, from the oyster's closed book of life,
on possession and renunciation at right time,
managing frustration and letting go graciously.

And what do you do
when the world’s your oyster?
If only it were as light
and as pretty as the pearl,
I’d hold it up to the sun and praise its
ethereal form.
Or if it would open
as easy as a picture book,
I'd read every word and know just what to do.
Instead, I stand on its dirt
and wonder how I could ever
build a castle out of it.

I could punch myself in the face
or I could grow up.
None of us, or any of this
is perfect; it's okay to not
measure up. Measure to what?
The beauty of life is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am sitting in the sun.
I can smile.
I forgive myself.
I love
myself.
This is the best poetry I could write.
The beauty of poetry is
that the definition is all my own.
No one can tell me what it is.
I am a pearl, however misshapen
I may be the world is my oyster.
It's mine. It's mine. It's mine.
I could get used to that.