Self-Portrait of a Froglet
first I feed
on mother’s yolk
attached am I
to her algae-soft fingers
then I start
the process fresh
covered by tiny teeth,
my lungs chewing away
the land’s last surface
in nine weeks, elbows
show, they say I am nearly there
where life begins
to make tadpoles again
Alkaline State
There is no magic in poetry.
Worms have wounds too.
There is only the oxygen of what matters.
A natural hormone unleashed to the infinity of the cell.
An exquisite flower wilting.
Saturnalia
I did not believe them.
You are so much more
than a giant, spinning ball
of hydrogen and helium.
When they doubted you,
I saw you radiating out
more than the sun gave you.
The Skin of God
Blooming under
a deep, gold bar
mahogany squash
colour, containing the
cherished dew of
midnight’s tears
we need the entangled
silence of soil. The source
of the Sequoias and the
bones of eternal Prague
daffodils laced with the
benign clarity of liquefying
moonlight, and Bull Nose peppers
seeking atonement in erotic rage
feeding from the palms of strangers
we need the soil, the stripped out
Skin of God
Eve’s Secret
Lying
above
the jewelled
staircase
these sexual
hallucinations
taste like
equality
for we all fight
to be heard
if not for God
than for love
I Know You Know
I accepted your apology
implicitly, but the aftertaste
of those emails stuck in
between my teeth like a
kernel of popcorn. I tried to
pick it out, you know I did.
Yet, it remains below the
crevice of the gums, a half-
buried fleck of fake gold.
«RELATED READ» UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE: A poetic response to the global pandemic»
image: George Payne
