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  1. Life below the water is drawn towards the suns reflection refusing to drown, waves are like the disparate pages of the city's history unable to create a seam, winds carry the skeleton of a dream towards a tree that grows eyes instead of leaves inside the mind of Lillian Biloca, enough eyes to see through the holes in the nets of fisherman, gathered to form a singular vision; working class forever drowning, bourgeoisie forever climbing. Lillian can hear the waters in a photograph sing for three sunken trawlers, their voices trapped, she ripped up the paradigm and raised them from the sea bed into a photograph. Lillian sailed with the moon and held it's anchor, the night made her captain, she then sailed the sun through Hessle road taking the residents into history to record the ascent on Parliament.
  2. sisters sang a new womb into existence, midwife moon delivers scientists, artists, soldiers,identity's commute to advance a new sensibility in which the tree is borne out of the fruit, you scorn the misogynists salute. A tattoo of Eve adorns the moon's delicate wrist and for those equipped to see in her eyes there is a dreaming tapestry, an inventory of all my sisters dreams bandaging a bloody wrist with the sounds of war echoing in blood.
  3. Brief winter sun of the flashing king streaking waters that are waiting for wings. Ears are tricked by the wind's onomatopeia, kingfisher's colors are streaked across the moon's shining spear. Snow arrives winter is cutting its hair. I wonder if the stream leaves white footprints after walking in a dream to catch the moons blade wearing a tear. There are blue glints, the kingfisher's courtship, the male grips the gift of a fish to his mate. The intimacy of otters as they stitch sharing the chalk's white thread, the needle's eye widens as days lengthen. Somewhere in chalk, there is a cache of each fish taken and every cloud that passes.The night is arguing with itself, the snap of thunder, bolts of lightning are its tears perhaps. Summer clouds are slippers for angels.
  4. why are poetry forums like this one so quiet?
  5. The moon was buried in an unmarked sky wearing my face, soldiers trained ghosts not to haunt those whose identity's had been displaced. Moving through villages winter seemed to lose its sense of self, tasting the cold it's shaking hands held the dead. As soldiers advanced the night walked backwards with holes in its boots, those children saved parachuted through cavities. The day called for commitment, measurement, for the ascent of ideals; and of transfiguration. I heard hungry trees near the desert talking about becoming ladders to the clouds to taste the rain, the desert spoke of raising insurgent sandmen to ride horses to prise the moon from the teeth of the wolf; two lots of blood, dust and sand, ideologies intermingled strand by strand. I was held by an image of a map of this land in the glass of heavens door falling through space, its trajectory corresponds with ours as we move beyond solace.
  6. My son was born without the power of speech, the secret police beat me while he was still in the womb. Hassan's bellybutton disappeared as he grew older and he painted a cave of winds (a reference to his family I believe) on a butterflys wings, when Hassan slept a flower grew where his bellybutton used to be and the butterfly would rest on the flower as he slept. The photographs taken of the bombed village we left slept then blinked woken by desert storms hammering the shack. I saw a gun balanced on the flower as Hassan slept and it began to talk of a butterfly choking on the vapours of war and surviving. My thoughts became formless like the wind. I wrote our names on two sheets of paper throwing them into the night like two abandoned wings.
  7. The sea's hand has a sixth finger, castle holding promontory, pressing against the wind's mouth. An artists's vague appendage, source of inspiration, his tears are launched like lifeboats to rescue thoughts of Dunnottar castle, bar after bar toll castle stone, tallying with story's borne out of an artist's stiff brush standing in a jar, the strive to be authentic, are the constructions on a promontory counterfeit when measured against those of nature?.
  8. yes well done
  9. Tears are launched like lifeboats rescuing thoughts of Dunnottar Castle, the sea has many windows it cannot climb through, there are many landscapes I can no longer preview. The strange dream I once had is seeking me-in which I was stranded in an ark on top of a promontory overlooking the castle, with the waters below drained and all that remained those drowned painting the sea as I sketched two promontory's.
  10. Their is a ladder of my shadows reaching the moon as I am laid in earth, they lower his heart placing it in my chest and I am allowed to walk amongst the living whose spirits walk on the moon contained within this heart.
  11. we need more members
  12. I was more struck by these lines after I wrote it- can hands from a cross reach a bloody watch hung between the sun and moon, to correct the time?
  13. Where is he?
  14. The day is like a camel waking with the moon still on display, the few rays of sunshine carried on trays down spiral staircases intimated in winter mists. A watch is attached to a bloody wrist every Christmas day, I have been for years trying to find footprints in a an hourglass filled with snow. Disparate snowflakes rest on boughs, snow is the alarm of the clock of the trees being announcing winters arrival and the familiar pull of history's catheter as sources are gathered. old modes dripped. I see a pair of antlers trapped in ice, holding but not gripping the sun, can hands from a cross reach a bloody watch hung between the sun and moon, to correct the time?-he left hand-prints in clouds to high to reach misty staircases, perhaps flakes are his frozen tears. I arrive home as solstice nears, a blackbird has left imprints on an old suitcase packed with snow in a garden that hints at the calm of a millennium all cried out.
  15. The night would shake my autistic son like a snow-globe, he would talk with coherence about the advance of snow and the ache of a heart waiting to be made to make a snowman complete- he explained two hearts were needed to trick death and the sun, which winter plucked. We stacked snow and gave him two hearts, after daylight arrived my son returned to exile, he and the snowman share the same enigmatic smile, now melted-an absence is a presence to a young boy staring out of the window.