Simon Gwynn

Cows,
your eyes voluptuous,
the sweetness of your mouths,
of your grass-lined stomachs,
...

Miss Marie Beatrice
owned a fabulous beast
each May she'd capture and saddle
and drive to the Fair.
...

A creaking senior cyborg let me in,
greeting me with a mechanical grin.
I offered as a bribe two auxiliary knees
fashioned in nickel by the Nipponese;
...

Here is a man
who doubts his hand.
Though he was quick to sit down
when the game called,
...

Entering the cafe, I find J
crunching a molecular biscuit.
His weary girl lies under the deadly shadow of the pepperpot.
Desparately, I attempt to
...

Insatiable compulsion of mechanic need
blinks blindly in the timeless dawn;
displaced diurnal cycles wake to sleep,
time is a fabric ticking wan.
...

Time is a light box,
a basket of rain,
limbs from a star sprung,
the blood's spiral of forms again.
...

What is is, isn't it?
What is is is.
Is is is what it is, it?
It is is is what it is, is what.
...

Sometimes it seems
less sense remains in me
than a jellied eel, or a mute wedged tortoise
scrabbling the mountainous years away
...

A clock ticks out reluctant time,
dividing the impassive air,
pervading some fresh impulse that could show me where
here is now, or anywhere.
...

My body wearily sunk,
sustained by a nameless source,
suspended by slow breath
in the bathwater, brown-gleamed.
...

Through the halls of the wooden king the owl drifts,
drops a hooting eye clutching at his dusty raiment.
Rips it away and in the basement
the baby wakes and rises up
...