Paper Moth

paper thin
and paper worn
paper weight
and paper torn
paper me
and paper you
paper white
and paper blue
paper caught
and paper blown
paper light
and paper bones
paper days
and paper nights
paper wrong
and paper right
paper this
and paper that
paper moth
inside my hat

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Notes from an Archaeological Dig

I remember it well
Humid heat after summer gales
The sweat that trickled and made us smell
Sea holly scratches, orchids, mare’s tails

August 1985…

The wind had cut through
Sallied across Kenfig Dunes
Exhuming on its way, as it flew
Forgotten bones now loosely strewn

With ancient, pursued lives

Bared knuckles, broken
Sand dusted toes, shattered
Exposed, cleaved skulls of men
Tibias, fibulas, mixed and scattered

Unknown children, hard worked wives

And in and out and interwoven
Seaweed ribbons, rib caged bars
Scuttle zones for lost crustaceans
Vertebrae for lookouts, sunny vistas

Where once a village may have thrived

We measured, sieved, elucidated
Wondered what landscape they had seen
What changes wreaked since long departed
Steel works, motorway, cars and vaccines

Like them, we’re still striving, in ways, to survive

Yes, I remember it well
Two uni students obsessing over old bones
Studying bodies, sharing warm white Zinfandel
Exploring the past and new-found erogenous zones

It’s all recorded in my own archive

Image result for kenfig dunes

(Sea Holly care of http://www.plantlife.org.uk/uk/our-work/conservation-projects/coastal/kenfig-glamorganshire)

The Master of Rituals

his floorboarded bones are rusty nailed jointed

unoiled and wrapped in stiff wads of coiled rags

arms incorrectly angled end with scuffed knuckles

woodsmoked fingers and pipe tar bittendown nails

 

he is racked with medieval torture pains

a brickly arched back is nauseously slime coated

mortared graveyard teeth set in crooked abandonments

behind methylated breath-fumes his misty arcane eyes dwell

 

one legged he shuffles with a fossilised slum dweller ambiguity

his inner tinnitus voices weep through welted tunnelled scars

the castellated storms that rage around his corridors of power

stalk death with every eerie echoed clack of his knotted stick

 

and the castle children taunt:

“rotten leg!

rotten spine!

ya! ya! Barquentine!”

 

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