Three poems by David Marshall

Feral

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.

 

 

Minutiae

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
        static
  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).

Twitter: @marshalldavi

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