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Alexander Hawkins Poems
Look into the largest largeness beyond the brutalist choir booming out stark music,
I offer something different, a fricassee of easy life where even the ugly people are attractive and real beauty floors a crowd. I didn't ask for the guide book when it was my birthday
They say it's tough times for dreamers. No one struttles down Oxford Street with Rachmaninoff stalking them in the form of perpetual personalised backing music. If they do, the keys compete with radio buzz and they just dial off,
Tea With Ptolemy
Curse our heliocentric existence! Curtailed cortices cast stale, semeny sensations over subtle senses.
A Bouquet Of Fleeting Flowers
I Up in umbrage at usurpers of skulking umber hue And pointing pointers at those who knew those who know, People playfully paddle the powerful whilst drinking prosaic Prosecco.
Comatose day dreams out of dust speckled windows ill-luminated by calico clouds and a sad sickly sun. Lactose moonlight washes out all the vagueness of our deconsecrated circadian existence.
That They Who Follow Might Learn
Ideas from the dark shadow of your head are concurrently cast as you converse. Dark stuff that, to be sure. I would coerce more cheery matter for us to natter.
We Liberate We
There is something disperate in the air. Insects are smashed against the wall, leaving mired mocha currents. This whole game is just for kicks.
Scenes From A Wreckage
You were laughing at the time when I was just learning French and thought ménage à trois meant we were eating at three. If I were searching for a metaphor for where it all went wrong, I think it was there.
Speech After Long Silence
We've been moving at 1038 miles per hour for months and yet we've gone nowhere. Awake sleeping. The cataracts clouding our vision collide, an early morning blood rush with sneaked liquors splashing against the sides of our ill stomachs. You joined me
The Apartment Of The Afterlifers
There'll be no leaving it alone now. This flaying of fumigators and braying of bellyachers is a call to armistice for laissez faire lexicographers across the land.
Eagerly chiselling my sugar-coated self from the syrup tsunami that flooded this town after the molasses storage tank burst in the night, I might take my old plane out
The Collared Dove
Let's take off all our clothes. It's time for shamelessness. On nights of self-reflection, we go skinny-dipping with our self-perception. We join the stars dancing on the water and we emerge, red-skinned not red-faced. A collared dove coo-coo-coos
Conspicuous In Absentia
Under a buzzing mechanical Cyclops, the carefree run carelessly through fields of fire-cracked sizzling rapeseed backlit by the pure blue of firmament's filament.
Comments about Alexander Hawkins
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
Edgar Allan Poe
(19 January 1809 - 7 October 1849)
(31 May 1819 - 26 March 1892)
(16 August 1920 – 9 March 1994)
Look into the largest largeness
beyond the brutalist choir
booming out stark music,
which fails to rebound
from echoless doom.
In the expanse
little transpires. Fuschia fumes
and parlour tricks,
which rarely are magical.
Look too long into the largeness,
turn it off and on again,
turn it off and on again.