I wanted to get lost, drunk on sap.
Assume an identity of leaves and drink
the run-off. Friends warned they’d find
me but I hid, lived off soil and worm,
doffed mascara, grew twigs for sinew.
Soon seeds I’d rooted sprouted under
floors. Rooms smelt pine-soft. I rained
long on suburbia. In winter, scribbled my
studies on ice. Feral forgot the old ways,
remembered pigeons and stem-cells,
grew warm in the bus stop. Slept.
After Bill Viola’s Tiny Deaths
Flock of flags in prayer
runs the imagined edge
of a brick-backed
Portobello council flat.
In colour faded by wind and rain
spelling out a story
of grass and granite,
beach and the spring
of salt-water spray,
the thin line between
earth and rock.
No I shall not
call that music; it is more
the cry of a foghorn,
the nights when the
rain is a mist of wet air.
The keenings and the darkness.
When the figures come,
their bodies just visible
before stepping into light.
I am blinded by what
I saw. Shadows moving
on a wall of
and a car passing by.
Your Thumbs All Over It
In the absence of girls, select PlayStation®
Fit sticky fingers to pads
Grasp dark lowered antlers
Let blue lights ebb across iris.
In the morning you’ll find symbols seared onto skin:
Triangle, Circle, Cross, Square.
David Marshall is a relatively youthful looking poet and teacher, who has nevertheless racked up numerous years of life experience, from which he draws words and weaves poetry. He has been published infrequently on the margins of the mainstream in journals and online zines such as Ghost House Review, Miracle and Ink, Sweat & Tears. He currently lives in China and is a co-founder of the bilingual zine IHOP (International House of Poets).