Pete Spence



Airs.

everything is vents

                    the air needs conduit

        piped music blocks
        the airwaves

                 to have
                 a nose
                 for noise

          Tap      Tap      Tap
(some leftovers from a novel)

                the sound
                of a ball
                ready to
                bounce

     the chorus finally
     gets to mime

a fine powder covers the earth

           daytime seems
           to be watching

The Colour of Style.

is the adventure misplaced or stolen
lying sleepless beyond the rising rain
that is all talk dampening any enthusiasm
until an aching arises in the distraught boulders
fleeing the speech of erosion its saturation
and clustered panic like leaping porcelain
unchained in several directions

the hour adjusts to the temperament
skidding lightly at a brief angle freshly mowed
the sun vows to set hard against the rim
dissolves quickly like a brick wall
in a headache suffering your presence
as it takes in more air hard as slate

sand and more sand eroding a breeze
as vague as daylight in a lift stifling
a quick hour between floors tumbling
seamlessly out across the foyer
gaining speed colour and style



Out Ouest.

ouest ouest go ouest haunting
butterflies like a liberated lioness
a chinwag out back of beyond
and beyond that? blur hour!
lacking a kind of lounging
like flotsam with intent fords
the floodlit fixation like a frank
villain leaning against a shadow
wresting some savage swill as
the afternoon untold unfolds under
an avalanche of sunlight the habitat
of Traipsers Trappists Sloth & Co.
fallen upon smooth light now
wrest me from these vagaries



Train Spotting at the Bayreuth Hauptbahnhof.

tubas full
of bird seed
the parrots
ad-lib en-mass
o for one freed
spielfrei moment
or deciduous
gesture humming
a few bars from the
Gotterdammerung
under its breath
as someone pours a bath
while the orchestra
takes lunch nearby
in the gardens



A Nights Reading.

i put on my glasses
and the tip of my nose
becomes more apparent
now vagueness
has a shape to it
though the air
is no clearer
page 42 of Gastropods
In Gaudeloupe
and still no hero!
page 63
chapter heading
Snail Derails Train
derails my reading!
bookmark it!
i'm still wide awake!
i reach for Temporary
Tangles in Metaphysics
bookmarked at page 124
its not long before
i'm deeply entangled
in sleep!




Pete Spence was born in 1946. He is a poet, visual poet, and filmmaker, and has worked in various jobs to cover the ongoing deficit.

He is currently retired from work but not from any of the above.
 
 
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