Vanguard Poetry

 
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 Want to find out if a van could be turned into a venue for poetry?

I did.

Want to see how it was done? Read this.

 

This was a ‘proof of concept’ reading, and there are bigger plans in the pipe line, so if you think you could help us develop the project in anyway, please get in touch on Twitter @swilley17

 

The Daily Filth

 

Spring In London

Come in from a warmth my small gazelle drill
Scaffolding green of caltrop pierce-hoof
For it is now midday and I’m in need of pigeons
Canted-builder, undead-mesh, brackened-eyes

Closets and kisses fold you up something proper
No today is not the day for something proper
Extinguish curls —

And when I was a poacher the room was pink
In summer O’ microwaves where the birds burst
And the shields turn in face to slit faces the pretty
Polices, and Luke

I garnered up the violence for you, I placed it in this bird
Will you hold it? Yet still, while you face it, will you come
In from my mouth, for it is now past midday, and I’m in need
Of poems —

Fuck off to find a fallow field mouse gangrene and empty
For he is out in the lower gut of my tiny Luke bird,
Shitting out green —

And I heard you ill the city – so are you my slow gazelle,
Or worse – are you my drill-field. And am I the closet terrorist
When even your kisses fear me —

Where even the birds sought my door to die?

 

Summer in Brighton

When you swell into the pier-slats a chlorine April otter,
Gulled between the baton, the granite & the sun floss-ochre,
Those were the days when I lost my tongue to Brighton —

For it is far past midnight and I’m in need of drowning,
Plaster drips its jowls onto the white-mesh
Brambles  —

Or on into a room is cracked and greener
Than a rose, the sea, a smash-welt flattener, an otter slumps
Its heavy chin onto the porcelain rashes,
For when I was a painter the bricks blew up

The Winter, O’ money find a tongue among the thrashes,
And when you find it, just cut it, greener up into the passes,
Can you paint it?

When you hear it, please flush it, for I am all an otter
And make not a lot of money —

And I heard you move the people,
So are you my flock of hammers? Or am I all this traitor
When even those purses fleece me?

Please now will you just tell me, why these boots keep on filling
Up with all this blood?

 

A note on the poems: Back in April 2009 I took part in National Poetry Filth, an online project organised by poet Sophie Robinson to celebrate National Poetry Month. The challenge was to write a poem everyday for a month, posting the poem to a group blog. I didn’t manage a poem a day, but these were two of my better efforts.