Clive Culverhouse Poems

getting into a taxi
I asked the driver
to take me to Bleak Street
...

harp
to the mouth at the mic

on one side
...

they wanted my eyes
they wanted to see what I had seen
they longed to see what I had seen
to know how I laid bare my step
...

I knew a man once
who fell head first
into a vat of being
...

suddenly in a gap between talking, he was taken over
by a new page, turned mid flow, as he clutched his chest,
creases betraying a defeated face as a thousand thoughts
bottle-necked the wasp-waste of an end, the hourglass
...

I am asked
but do enjoy a good moon
breaking from midnight clouds
balancing on treetops
...

she didn't have a face like thunder
it was more overcast
like when you don't know
whether to put your washing
...

a true story of meditation
and a tear between dimensions

as purple vibrated
...

they would have you believe
you were too sacred
to look under well-settled rocks
pledging allegiance
...

Nicorates warned me about you
not so much with words
more in dubiety,
a clairaudient hesitation
...