Fish head on Hastings beach October 2011, photograph © Dominic Blackwell.


by Dominic Blackwell

I start with these words, 
I launch with these words 
which leap and skip and jump and trip. 
They move, 
never lose, 
sometimes soothe 
and they soon 
catch the moon 
in their stride, 
go inside 
those holes, 
stolen roles 
of burning 
limpid lines. 
And when 
in this space 
out of place 
they move 
so many ways 
that make a scene 
in the mind 
in the eyes of the brain, 
not insane 
a bit vain 
but still within the head. 
Then you start to feel a way to swing the words
and jam the verbs and the nouns 
into the empty space, 
the face 
of the void 
the much annoyed 
which kissed 
the face of Nietzsche
(how the monster monstered him) 
yet still the beat goes on. 

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