Halo

window-panes halo woman watches

the tossed joy of children bouncing empty mattress,

laughing;

these blighted fruits of formal language

lost,

knotted guts outlined, dreaming cold harassed furnaces, hatching scars criss-crossed with ruddy mothers eyes …

crimson confused cage of hungry letters - bulimic,

the song less abandoned brawl,

as her faith waltzes tangled fruits of lovers limbs, the wind howling egg lights naked shell.

Dead Prophet Graffiti

the dark alleydigital progress stirs attendant nostalgias;

bourbon burning cigarettes and seduction, I live in spits and

whistles shadowed in corridors of repetition; liquors, corrosives - the graffiti of dead prophets

sketching her lingerie from memory in my notebook; Zen mind, her moist lower lips, double-doors ajar, no exits signposted,

hieroglyphics consume me from the cafe table to the room key … .

Language ebbs infertile in dead cars wilderness, the plastic carcasses of frappacinos dropped in demonstration.

Sandals

The bulbs hummed dusk .

Muffled sounds carried Chinese whisper empty fighter ablutions as she woke traffic, Jesus skin secreting secret language amid tequila clipped witticisms.

An anchor for my words the pain eased as summer drifted and she prised the cosy abyss. Haze inked her brothers and the tongues of red hot matadors; their tales rehearsed, she shrugged in humid neon, telling me we could walk if I carried her sandals … .

Later, the symmetry of her pubic hair and liquor-breath confessions collapsed distinctions in the apartments yellow glow.

Decor

Clothing submissiveness to Christ’s summary masochistic restoration of our language

killing random impulsivity during interview behavioural private ‘chit-chat’

chalk white blackboard indictments like a Hollywood set with two movies shooting

he rains progress reports in hospital ancient phantasm buildings

loathing deep within, repetitious humdrum trivial week-long spasm of verbal admonitions echoing incipient divinity, attendants subduing penis like a blinked eyes wide-open secret wilted stock market humiliation,

defecating boredom and cognitive brutality hypodermics

an absolutely perfect, cultured platonic dictator

my bored, disordered thought forcing interested, ordered outer décor

The Question

The question will eternally repeat;

a noise transmitted, the repetitive cry boring with intolerable persistence:

the position of the listener,

the role of the reader,

but still the same unanswered question

the maimed legs of a fire-shrivelled machine, gulping and barking spasmodically in post-industrial delirium,

a book lined with religious gilt,

an academics ingenious inter-textual references,

but none will answer

nor bear any more fruit than a catalogue record.

She lets her hair fall concealing her neck, fingers clenching traffic. I climax loud, flat and harsh, while she sighs discordant …,

cooling on my back I wonder if we belong to the same species;

if this is who we truly are.

Hideous Men [For Natascha Wolf]

You loiter poolside wearing blue reflections

glass of margherita, hints of sex and pretend boredom we sing happy birthday to limp literary circles,

pretending virility to present competitors; like the chalk blackboard scratch of old teachers waning in the stench of adolescent sweat, the smells intimate

these anxious relations with hideous men, preserved

in lime and punctured light -

a plague of poet laureate distended waistbands.

As people pile, we are introduced and make our encampment, mirthfully observing a fluent string of witticisms.

You are curved like fruit and like fruit I rise stroking the gnarled ink knots of dandelions twisting your skin hip high. And the barest trace …

of brittle black curls on your lower waist.

We drink swollen black Spanish coffee and purposefully, yet invisibly, leave,

hot in the rear of your car like frantic pistons,

instruments of percussion,

the salty tang of your animal rich hair delivering thin, cruel hints of life amid dead leaves and battered suitcases.

Transfiguration

I clear my throat toward the skin of a slightly oriental woman, throat slender, bun angular, her limbs cut as cloth,

flushed abasing myself, admiring her proportions, my socially upsetting eccentricities surfacing shimmering scales, gills

gulping for oxygen, my analysis causing withdrawal as she leaves for the ladies room.

A neurotic male wearing women’s cosmetics, blusher dusting his stubble; a sex-addict

in the grip of his own catatonic mythology,

to my surprise she returns her hair decorated with leather beads and

clutching my palm she pulls me into the waltz, whirling me

dervish, numbed in the dialogue of a saint her form slipping silk between subjects,

objects and different dimensions.

Objects formerly merely functional;

bland, but now

transfigured.

Employee of the Month

Forbidden smoky scents creep with furtive thick paws crawling grunting chants. Sunlight stipples low partitions - a fugitive - wet, processing statistics; rehearsed phrases, brief attachments and false womb space memories of infant security,

crumbling tenements,

brassiere illusions,

her left stiletto shoes etiology returning me to dismissive flick of animal hair, enmeshed net breasts, clenching, grinning,

giggling tickled; dew gathering call centre cubicles

something in the glitter conceals her

clasped in artefacts, zironica, burgundy glossed skin,

john doe methodical gesticulations pass at random, disassociated in her languid half turns.

A.D.Hitchin is a poetry and prose writer published extensively in small press and independent journals including ‘Blaze VOX‘, ‘Ditch’ and ‘Dogmatika’. His ’The Holy Hermaphrodite’ chapbook has recently been released by Shadow Archer Press. You can catch newly updated experiments HERE and HERE.