Alexander Hawkins Poems

Please don't anyone ruin that enigma
of the eternal pamphleteer,
whose place in reality is somewhat unclear.
She offers out vibrant slips with a Σ
...

A problem lurched - even pickled or loxed
pinkly sweet, it was no less perturbing.
That network of the noosphere, now faux-luxed,
alert, had frissoned with falciforming
...

In those repeating months of Spring, recto
and verso historians, Goya-eyed
chronologists and sly virtuoso
arch-revisionists cheerfully spread wide
...

There's an undulating throb in the Mammonic temple
that really resonates in precise conditions; i.e.
when masticating over particularly nasty pink gristle,
when overwhelmed by an oppressive mountain of guff,
...

There are legends of legionary squalid scoopers
fishing out dirty coppers from a silvery font
after an uncommunicative visit to the community centre,
where they draw the line between dole queue and pig trough.
...

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.
...

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
...

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
...

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.
...

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
...