Reuben Woolley

tell me a life tell me a story

colour 
is just a life away a 
skull’s story 

                                the old yellow 
dog moon pocked & smiling 
like tomorrow i gather 
horizons for time 

                                       let’s see 
the fit the fumbling / the 
dust on my shoes like anyone might 
confuse a connection / the language 
of my finger pointing a variation 
of somebody’s truth 
                                                it’s a sliding 
scale / a trill on an off-beat it leaves 
my raw new flesh to hold onto.i’ll 
pretend we know me 
                                                not flaming 
in sight again there are better extremes 
where i carry whales in my hand 

not raining / 
                     / a mote may glow 
in this lost 
i do                     idle 
as catch can.waking 
was not wasted 

                                      & the old pimp wants 
his price a life is not sufficient 

daughter that’s no river 
how far we cast our eyes 
this isn’t venice deeper 
on other clients’ beds 

so charon sells tears now the aching bastard 
we don’t forget a fucking john his mad master 
sowing barren seed she said



lost words

meaning 

                      i do 

& counting refusals 
are caged for protection 

is a weather 
inside / a slight 
slip in the words i use 

& why she sings 
                                      she does 
a voice a storm i know 

a people / a very 
forget me now i am not 
here & crazy like always like square ball- 
bearings & everything’s turning come throw 
me down when time was solid i haven’t 
space 

                 enough 

for quietude 

tell me now 
a new direction 
& fuck the sound of it all.i could never 
write in tune i lost the key the poor 
clock wind me down in dust & toothless



see the wounds would you

digs tunnels north it does this scar 
their fierce direct the true 
memoirs / a cruel reminder

the 

                teller 
left & these are not the golden 
measure.oh fuck the builder the 
carver of stone he forgot 
his code 
my old moon & half 

                who cuts it here 

a broken gate & let them wander these lost 
holes & never were dreaming such 
force the cold slice reads 

                                         paint 
me this a wild cunt & 
centre / a silent shout 
i wrote about the moon & still 
it’s there 

cutting faces 
swallowing remains
 


eliminating inessentials & other necessities

feel my metal 
claw carving 
                                do you 
 
                                an old head.come 

grow your wings / your 
light escape & cut 
the air 
                your feathers 
& my sliced wind.it is a making 

in screams the bearers enter pale flesh 

                                                                      a ruptured 
membrane unhearing & bring 
the blood to simmer 
a white silence sing me 
your alligator teeth.all alarms 
don’t justify 
                                a fall 

bringing no difference & what else 
went missing.the wheel 
was not invented 
& we scratch for fire in the dirt.darker 

things there are like 
cold 
stone landscapes.find 
this written while we survive these tremors 
are normal 
                        it’s surface breathing / for 
time comes squealing.we’ll tie the knot 
& reel her in.talk to me 
here & i’ll slip through plates / i’ll 
send out my eyes to seek 
a safe manoeuvre / tell me where a body lies 

                &  slight a quiver 
won’t make the news.notice 
this is no paradise i saw your clones 
& once there was 
a book for all these stories / now 
bring the rats to find an end
 


medea all over

you / how 
you see so 
many voices / how 
you know 
a further 
                    face 
now & 
call a bleeding.you 
kill me again 

                                listen 

do you 
hear the chorus 
talking 

                   oh do you cry 
out a weakness / a 
bitter waste 
of darker grounds 

i’m not a 
patient 
                  woman 
can you feel my teeth 
embedded 
tshshshshshshsh 
i said



elsewhere i breathe

it could have been different 
& not this 
                       slow dust 

                       over 

                   empty.let’s see 
a finger                                 fumbling 
too tired to change 
a stuttering mess.look 
at my confusion i cannot 
bleed sufficient i say 
these crazy details don’t hear 
a lonely word i breathe you 
this repeat 

                        somewhere 
i have my own name now 
reassembling 
another history i don’t know 
& never hanging words 
like plaster geese.remember 

                                      they are still 
                                      dead & quietly 

                                      december

Reuben Woolley is an English poet but has lived most of his life in Spain. He has been published in quite a few magazines such as Tears in the Fence, Lighthouse, The Interpreters House, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Proletarian Poet, And Other Poems, The Poet Shed among others. He has also been published in the anthology, The Dizziness of Freedom. He has five books to his name, the latest one being some time we are heroes with The Corrupt Press. He has a book forthcoming in 2019 with Knives Forks and Spoons Press called this hall of several tortures. He is the editor of the online magazines, I am not a silent poet and The Curly Mind.
 
 
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