ditch,

the poetry that matters

Sarah Crewe

Sarah Crewe is from the Port of Liverpool, England. Her chapbook, Aqua Rosa, is available from erbacce press: http://www.erbacce-press.com/#/sarah-crewe/4562125882  and has work upcoming in In The Company of Ghosts: The Poetics of the Motorway anthology. Her work has also appeared at Route 57, Otoliths, Red Fez, erbacce, Sunfish and The Camel Saloon.

 

implicit

i have sent her for you

in violent absence

violet absolute

red/blue meridian

reaching out to deadwood

damp but still flickering

reaching entirely

aligned/attached/outstretched

beyond exposition


 

 

erosion

less resistance to

floods in traffic

chalk is temporary

erase letters remove

words heated fingertips

nothing can grow here

you can only drown no

undergrowth to disguise

or dessicate wet feet

it stings grazes burns to

think that a sunday saint

has no grid reference or

compass point on a north

liverpool map psycho-

geographics make no

provision for land lost

shipwrecks or pirate boys

digging for gold in

valleys of dust or

plundering words from

giants with no voices

and over the hill

over the hill we go….

 
 
special police constable

I have no                                 there is no
sense of                             possession we
read in             scarce                 spaces a
quatrain of                         block silence
memory                                      the way i
would clench bottles              between
my thighs                  and flinch at cold
plugs                   one two three and off
I have never                            you have
never
                   watched the way she
grabs                   what we would never
swap for                                    fuck piety
immerse yourself                    in forms
bruises                                   in absolute
if it were me                                      isms
in the                                           purity of
DNA                                     left ruptured
knotted in                     ash wednesday
eternal                               
what if what
only                            
she has my nose
I recognise                             the slope/
rattle                                         poetry in
her flaying                    hands and feet

 
 
 
time slip

and you
and you
into
in town
in tow
in torrents
in terror
in abject
object fading

refocus lens

rethinking
and falling
refolded
replanted
outward and
bombed out
church this
street has

no trees
 

 

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                                                                                                           July 2, 2012