If there could be such a love,
a dog love, dog did I love a bit
as though it yelps, impenetrably.
Love is a picture, a picture of a river
and inside the salt moves in ways that
remind me of a dream I once had
bound tight up to the eye sockets,
“I will wheel out your drug-corpse
and let us refrigerate”.
Dogs bark though after the first
single flame the logs lay stunted, love lasts.
If I were to put the concept of you in an oven
what would I resurrect? I melt in your face
Above my shoes are socks, above that,
endless throw-ups against loads and loads
and loads of fizzy abyss.
I tried this morning. I tried to taste Asia.
It’s kind of like that time I got caught jugging
China and Taiwan whilst the big hand had
melt down between ticking, period.
This morning I tasted ‘you’ at 3.30pm
after inhaling the sky, Asia works endlessly for us.
It’s as though we asked it to keep up
a stiff firm watch over the harbour.
Clocks ticking. A song I recognise? No.
I visualise you visualising me visualising
you are doing this. What do I owe you?
No. What do I owe Asia?
The hesitancy is so much—pause.
For real interjections interrogate the time
it takes to clock out the Asian everyman
in rice. I consume. Rice.
In each particle of rice I see choices,
an expanding mass of choice and
Would I be in jeopardy were I to stand in front of a reindeer?
You lied to me Christmas, oh festive capricious day.
To prance is not to walk all gun ho into a smoky saloon
barrels all a’blazin a head of haggis the sky drips down
the wall of jeopardy onto a single reindeer renamed
Clarence singleton with the middle name jeopardy, dying.
Of all the things I could reign, all the things I hold dear.
Could you damage me, my love? Could you damage my raw self?
But with all this, maybe we are jeopardising song or the “poem” or
hot mud slung under a milky fright screaming at Clarence like a prawn
stuck in a cigar dreamless to death picking up on the weird vibes.
This is, thus of course, as in that it should be.
As my fork lifts, lifts by chance I think
about the time we shared that omelette, by chance.
But that orphan forklift is a scrounger,
tattooing the kidney on the void. Help.
The unpredictable and uncharted
element of a steel fork cutting so great against
a windfall cans it, as if by chance I were
to see you in that spot I saw you, when I saw
you, we would lock ears over subjective meanderings
by chance lifting the fork through heavy knots of dreaming monkey legs,
the strength of my tongue is forked to my cheek
it is not always that good.
The chance of a kipper racing the sea
is minimal, randomly.
Chinc Blume lives in Brighton and has published in Cleaves Journal.
(Featured in NP 14, which you can purchase from our shop for 3 pounds including postage and delivery: http://nakedpunch.com/site/issues)