Rob Yates
put the orchids down there
and watch out for the spine.
it came up in the night like that memory
you hug far too tight
but when the singing cuts out
there’ll be song, loud enough to cook with.
whitewater of the soul, fugue with scales and tongue,
joke upon joke collapsing like an accordion.
prevention of sleep, steps in the wrong mud,
the drip drip drop of manna on marshland.
you’ve disturbed the undergrowth again
with your unclipped feet.
red clots left from the open sky burial
even the kites won’t feed
to their monstrous young – prepared for life,
wheeling for death, the flat music
of merry-go-rounds, dissonance as tonic,
mistakes made with harmonic intent,
a magazine no longer in print,
a printed date, the inner stone, a thunder that precedes its maker,
old train approaching long distance through the day before
tunnels of smoke and the stamping of bulls
and leave the orchids on the side, right there,
next to the rest of the morning.
we can always turn them into something else,
soon as I get this reptilian bear
back in its cage. don’t help me, I’ve got it.
ROB YATES has appeared as a bookseller, a bartender, a casual gardener, and a charity worker both at home and abroad. He originally hails from Essex but is currently journeying through New Zealand. Some of his work has appeared in Agenda, Bodega, Envoi and other literary magazines – he tries to keep everything under one roof as much as possible via www.rob-yates.co.uk.
