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Of windbreakers and maple trees

The curtains turn with a smirk
while autumn leaves itself on her shins
during the first windy August day.

The very air is in disbelief,
the neon lights sang
like parrots of the forest

and she hummed a few songs
but the night begged for a nap

these burning feathers
paint her a still-life
about the pastures
where summer used to lay.

 

Amity of rain

There's a quiet in the walk
when my heel matches the water.
You see,
I shared my love for a drizzle with you.
My feet broke the boundaries
as I washed down my thoughts
and became
one with the pebbles.

It's my promenade
and its audience is a splash,
a tap on the fence and on my forehead,
I cheer for each of the cloudburst racers
as they make their way down,
right into my pocket.

And how they hold my hand
right next to yours,
my little hell sleeps
in this amity of rain.

 

The 'baby, come on' syndrome

You wrote a city of poems in your loins,
the blood-shot Budapest with a soft spot for the rhyming crowd,
a disinfected lap dance that sits at the table
spooning with such bad behaviour.

Injected with the greediest syndrome
and the velocity of a gas can explosion;
the streets are full of foaming mouths,
spitting our names out

empathizing each fucking syllable.

These twenty years of back pain-
you can't stand straight anymore
and I evade your eyes at all cost.

All the clouds look petty
when we river down each other.

2 weeks of downpour

I.

We fucked and we fought.
Wet on wet.

II.

I thought of us moving to the sunshine state
to be miserable with a tan.

We're so dislocated
with those "little somethings"
diving into an already
soaked
cardboard-made,
unstable future.

I'm all loose on tarmac
with some change to cover suicide
exposed to the bullet-holes
I so carefully patched with poems

and you paid yourself a visit
with twenty pounds of bones-
crushed by the bodyweight
of thoughts about love.

III.

It's been pissing down for days,
we have nowhere else to go.

So I try to make my garbage brain cosy
with coffee, pills and flowers.

A special blend,
an uncut drug
that turns the drops on my hazy window
into tiny racers
holding lying promises of change.

IV.

I rain all day
and you still want to be here.

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Of windbreakers and maple trees The curtains turn with a smirk while autumn leaves itself on her shins during the first windy August day. The very air is in disbelief, the neon lights sang like parrots of the forest and she hummed a few songs but the night begged for a nap these burning feathers …

Casey Haldaine Poems Read More »

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The Settlement-Chris Boyland

Chris Boyland is a prize-winning poet who lives and works in Glasgow. His poems have been published in magazines and journals such as: [Untitled], The Poets’ Republic, 404Ink, Northwords Now, and

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