Iain Britton


gladieightor

                visuals overtly show

                     a vehicle / brand new / 8 cylinders of grunt

has made it from Japan          invaded our patch

                        a billboard presentation

for the always hungry the always looking for the next fatted calf

competitors enter at their own risk

>>>

there’s no room for hesitation

for the paltry smiler

the tentative player of a fortune teller’s predictions


of one’s next step or where tomorrow will be at 11pm
or if the son of a father might be swinging from a plank
a daughter folding the clothes of St Joan St Agnes 
or pulling out the arrows of Sebastian for souvenirs

<<<

history has a habit of going rotten between the legs

the closer I stick my nose

the further I chase the perfumes of angels

          the harder any resolution seems

>>>

you compare us      one against the other
      
                   to variant strains    


I look at you   

it’s to do with fundamental regulations

painted on tin / plastic /

         on the skulls and bony off-cuts

               that flower annually 


   on the smoked and shrunken precepts

rammed into the edifices

of individuals

                    basking in the sun

<<<

I steel myself against the kamikaze hordes

    your promiscuity

    the running with the naked through streets

    the naked in parks

    the white storm clouds gathering


I’ve been accused of writing my name in water

                           a see-thru worship

                  difficult to hold

                                to cup in my hands

>>>

I’m told

            some large silvery ball
 is supposed to splash into the lake

                      send up columns of spray

                         a no-man’s ladder

                advertising military hardware

           sodden-red fields 

    and a chaplain’s grace

<<<

                a train

comes through the middle of my house


           children

                huddle against windows

           bare feet flatten the forests     the valleys


                       shouts          reverberate


I’m told       

consent forms must be completed

        and cell numbers given

a brochure full of ecstasy        pronounces
the final frontier         

     and a man-mountain prises open his chest
     and the train         plunges inwards


          daydreams

            are picked over by soldiers         banging on doors


they ask questions        

           demand more for dragging you outside

for observing how we behave 

                  they demand their slice of beef

 
the future has a habit of hiding 
                                                  rags to riches

                 between the legs

Iain Britton's poetry has been published widely in NZ and Australia and elsewhere. New ebook published by The Red Ceilings Press (UK), 2011. Oystercatcher Press (UK) published his 3rd collection in 2009. Kilmog Press his 4th in 2010.
 
 
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