Weeds grow where they want to; not where they're told to grow...

erbacce-press

DISCONNECTED #1

No tragedy: the tracks,
squirming in the rage of
chronic difficulty, nor the hell
of occupancy, truth
of an indefinite existence.

Understand the howl of the flesh
cramped in this half-cured trauma.

Flat, lungless: all is image,
else it is forgotten
like most memories, and remembrance
mostly a betrayal anyway.

I want like an unadorned finger
with poetry in the fist too heavy
to be born, and to love
properly without the hellish command of war
where every word hurtles to a wound.

I want the sun
to exhibit herself
more humanely:
forgive; or me
refine my hostility.

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If you wish to purchase this book click on the cover or if you use PayPal add it to your orange shopping cart

Prew's website is here

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You can now order signed copies of this book also direct from the author; click here if you wish to do so.

spring sketch with small corpse

the world dilates –
thickens fat reds
flower the landscape –
clotted menses
staining the green

a bruise of bluebells
sorrows
amid a frizz of fern

gorse flashes its golds

in the velvet mud
bloods and blacks cotton-bud bones –

the silence of a blackbird’s throat

breathless

in the act of their blooming
wild poppies unfurl
sun-coloured

a sea-scent drifts in on the breeze

a fist of cloud/
gulls with oil in their blood

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If you wish to purchase this book click on the cover or if you use PayPal add it to your orange shopping cart

***************************************************************

Prew's website is here

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