the poetry that matters

Petra Whiteley

Petra Whiteley has two collection of poetry published, The Nomad's Trail (Ettric Forest Press, 2008) and The Moulding of Seers (Shadow Archer Press, 2009). Her poetry and/or prose appeared in Seven Circle Press, Apt, ditch, Eleutheria, Full of Crow, Unlikely Stories 2.0, Paraphilia, The Recusant, Clockwise Cat, The Plebian Rag, Counterexamplepoetics, Weirdyear, Disenthralled, Danse Macabre & Danse Macabre du Jour, Alternative Reel and has been featured in Outside Writers Collective. Her poetry is also due to appear in anthology of Ettrick Forest Press and Heliocentric Press in the near future. Whiteley's articles/reviews on political/current issues, essays on history and methods of poetry and literature movements, current poets and lyricists had appeared on regular basis in the Glasgow Review, Osprey, and Eleutheria.

Chroma of (no) Nightmare 

What is the scent of this black water? It is
I too, will be the bones that are watching me
from the corner of their yet blacker steady gun-eyes.
My skin will darken and dry, I will not utter a word
as long as
I hold on with tentacles, fangs of will [to be].
Within my paintings
I am becoming translucent, immaculately milky.
Under the surface
everything is as it is... Everything
remains but that undisturbed light of me.
Still poised is the bee that explodes
the organic light of apocalypse of mind
in the circular cell moored by the hum
of time peopled by breathing mechanisms;
there, the eyes that would grill the tongue alive. [if they could]
Kick start the sick flower of self. Too scared
to follow the way. Out. Behind the skin no one else
but It

exi(s)ts in sickly sweet stench of Death

The woods of platitudes germinate the graves -
the structured queue of standing up numbered
and expecting the Eucharist of the nightmare -
it has no sound but the crescendo of emptiness.
But, Life is not lived here,
there is no Life till it becomes
a wound fleshing it red,
the crucified Hell of One.Self.
Sober and rousted.




The sticky black globe shivers in birth pangs, wasted,
the birds become furious, outside the windows are
blue silhouettes forced out of the fumes of the young eating
death with chips, pigs of the sky beat their wings. Expectant.
Re-gu-lar. Stand-by.
Rhythm choked. Staring at the stone. Droned platelets.
First rate vehicles, maddened-ostracised-totalled.
Signed dots blown tongues soon to blacken and fade.
The life-shed mid-way fattening, watching endless combinations
of genitalia - the cross of flesh, annihilate, resurrect virtual.
Hero of one's mouth a gaping hole in a pump. In-to-out.
Drain on alone alien-at-ed. Touch-skeletal starvation monument.
Tilted. Viscid void to skin rush.
The humming of breaking Sun in the edible
re-recyclable camera-minds. Only the worn-out think of life.
The sunken, crunchy eyes that smoke in contest,
conjured gestures of the synchronised beat on the wood.
Promised Land - destination: the bliss of torture and burn, the curve
of one syllable precise and the clone breath, sunk in a fine rain control,
drops clockwise nowhere downwards, formula of flagellation - gravity
as salvation, delivery via the disease, health-sinned. This is not a wrong. Wrong.            
                                     Time of ticking plasma thoughts, on the prowl filtration, unsuitable red(ness)
What is bearable here, except the night,
the reality of the glass and all that tranquillity tinted
by the greater safety of even numbers? But look outside,
(no)body (can) count here those corroded transfusions.



Gospel of a perfect line

this. A on a perfect level, take it to the pub
and let it scratch your externals. Proud, this is
Life. Glass up,
glass down

This is as far
as mind is prescribed to stretch

I have
a stuffed turkey with a DIY halo
of pisshead prophets like beads
strewn onto it, shining ignorance
fucking the bird with that perfect
stuffing of my sacred right to not
ever need to encounter the hell
of a thought occurring.

Gas all those strays! If I wear a leash
so must you, to breathe

All colours - blue!!

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