the poetry that matters

Steve Parker

Steve Parker lives one mile from Emily Bronte's grave on the edge of Haworth Moor in the UK. He is 44, yet spends an inordinate amount of time parenting, and tearing his hair out in the late afternoon. He works in a variety of new and traditional styles, and is a founder member of the Orzel Project transtextual collaboration. He was first published in Chaos International in the mid-80s, which got him arrested as a potential terrorist in an airport in 1989. He is a regular contributor to a few online poetry forums, and has a blog which can be viewed here: www.brickstackblockstack.blogspot.com

Basho’s Mind of Christ


it was that rainy morning
the trains oozed past like snails
clouds of shit stuck to their long heads
she said I think you should

to this other woman
I said
you're on a martyrdom trip
sound like my mother
sound like chaffinches over

should I light the fire
what other woman do

you mean
you know the one, she said
as the train blew a faceful
in the rain
the one that's always there
in your
mind of

the frogs around the green ponds outside the stations
thought Christ
fuck this


six days into the trip
we found them white-side up
legs wide apart
in our thick soup
like jokes

fat dead jokes

about Basho



wetting arc (a demi-flarf)

bead control
, did you mean? maybe
she let her tongue travel
(deduced from heats)
in a Kirchhoff integral (WTF?) of stroking
repeated this a few times
a liquid-solid-interface
and soil cluster,
spreading wettability
and brazing the type of head
repeated stroking
any point
along the length, thickness
capillary, thickness:
'stroking equations'

Repeat: and what if she just shoved
him the love
she craved?






the level-above sport


can't write this
can only assemble artefacts
polygraph readouts intermediate or greater
(Please respond ASAP)
(one level above me right now, we the undersigned)
remove all associated physical effects:
tools (balls, bats etc), accessories, location
side by side in the air
A simple, easily-operated device is provided
by which a 'dead' receptacle at a level above

(fragments of grass whirring in sunlight)

Oh for God's sake look

it's happening here again right now
in the air it is happening now!






Forced Fire. A rite of passage


"Keep coming through on the radio..." - The Rezillos

this is no place
and the fires
at one stroke

go out like tides of air

not a dying
not a fading
but shock reeling out

place bounded—trees that lean—signal—inward as though—as though—concern—
lascivious intent—like but not like—other—
naked one that lies—in debris it lies—scatter—moonless—place without sound—

it is quiet penetration
of dead spirit the arrival
intersection of orbits
running of men with coals

hissing of night/thing that does not/does not wake/awake

it is curling, arching, combustion

in the dark and cold
people are waiting
to fuck

speak to us now in the waves of the body

it is the singing filament
that spans from diaphragm
to celestial arc
that draws us in
like hymn like battle song

(we see omens
in the edges of our eyes)

speak to us now in the waves of the body

our collective
position species medium
order of being

this waiting around, this waiting
we stamp and drink
stinking like wet reindeer

speak, naked one
in waves, speak

now leave the light of understanding by the door
and fuck off

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