THE KNIVES FORKS AND SPOONS PRESS

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13.

she fell down right smack on her poodle

back at the bed & breakfast

our waiter would not stop quoting Marx

a kid of 6 got lost in the attic

someone called for Rita Lin

& a schwa management manual

that wheelbarrow is missing a wheel

formerly the clipboard

belonged to me but ever since

isbn 978-0-9563928-5-5

£4.00 17 pages

(playground)

arthur abraham still beat edison

miranda with a broken jaw clearly

it could be seen from the video footage

a looseness, a freedom the jaw shouldn’t

have the dentismal argument one

lip had with another, the teeth refusing

to align, the loss in in his expression for

his mouth was permanently open caught

light by a slash of coloured gumshield

the jaw is the jaw of David

it is an emissary of an exultant young

woman a mother to be wrapped in red

leather on the crib of a mountain

amongst the sons who knew death as

a thievery coil as marker who bore this

jaw as a testament to the extant that

cannot be shattered beyond a shrift

he will box on the bust, the form of sculpture

the jaw is an unreliable tool of

expression its appearance cannot be

trusted his eyes spoke otherwise his

insistence is the colour of cherrystone

marble his stubborn fix a baited bear

the decision was open to contention

but abraham still won and crushed

miranda in the rematch. Proud stands

the son of arthur abraham in the

german playground

isbn 978-1-907812-13-2

£3.00 15 pages

I don’t remember going to the Grenada in Portland Road, Hove, don’t recall the film on show, and don’t remember, on the same day, seeing a play, or its plot, or its title. A frame set up, years later, by others. Outside of it there are voices, whispering. Empty landing, tall doors never shut, banging in any wind. The attic, its sloped tar-hair padding, muting all street sounds. On one page, attempts at painting, soaked blots, dried solid. Across the folio, words. A carpet of Daily Heralds for the blackened man to hump sacks upon through the house to the bunker at the back, in the garden. Coal dust on the doorframe, where the hood catches it. Chorusing thanks over pie-chart fractions. Crawl into the hole under the stairs where browned instructions from the Blitz still hang. Regard a patch called the Egg Field. A gold clock turns under a glass dome. A wasp pullover bobs with a ball by the airbrick. A bedroom, narrowing to this world. Chained from picture rails, oval portraits of tinted babies. Silk slung over banisters. A dozen or so knapped flints pushed into the earth: a Roman road straight across the horses’ field, the wheat, the ridge of the Downs. Timbers, pram-wheels, string, scattered around the garden . . .

isbn 978-1-907812-07-1

£5.00 35 pages

Insectio

ns must shed surfaces, or moult,

several times in order to grow to size. B

eneath the old, hard skin, a new, soft-s

keleton-forms. Insections takes in ex

tra air to make itself larger spl

its the old, which falls off. The y

oung stages of Insections are quite differe

nt from the adults; the

se moult, eventually producing a ‘chrysalis’ or ‘Insections’.