Clive Culverhouse Poems

we found each other's bodies
in a pile of bodies
writhing and squirming for the light
...

if it wasn't for the fact I would be dead
in less than a minute, I would always be in awe
at the sight of a thousand fire-tipped arrows
arching and downing like fireflies in sparkled warmth
...

and so our hero, the artist,
forlorn as his palette,
then sat down
to reconsider his life
...

he's a sweet harmonica home Joe
soft steel raven, bending blues
dripping honey from her spoon
nothing quite says melancholy
...

he's a treadmill
living palindromic days
real time
which doesn't help
...

sun tanned unevenly, foxed
grimy fingers caress bruising
pounded by day's narration
churlish in onyx, was its hint
...

I followed the path because I recognised it
as the path that followed me
sunlight made the pebbles paler
as I made them darker like a shadow
...

parrying street space invaders
with restive vinegar smiles
their incessant bip bip bip
countering my spilling step
...

hey, do not listen when I play my beloved jaw harps
all breaths circle air becoming flavours of our mood
my breaths are from valleys too magmatic to bridge
with semantics of music, no, I keep my own demons
...

and, glad the last astronaut there left the light on
I stand by the back door, you have the TV on loud
a coin so high, mid toss heads or tails, who knows
it's like waiting for rainbows at night, stars to melt
...