Poems by Amy De'Ath
In Case of Sleep
Sitting on a retro toilet that once belonged to Geena Davis
I stand for what I pee. A mighty maze speaks Olivia
through its annals & look! Her apology implodes.
I came to see you to tell you that the weather is finally listening
when your chest bleats into the cul-de-sac, but dining into the human
species and their revolving loopholes all I hear is your blood
and see it flooding out on a doubly romantic dream of mine which
the poets say is beautiful but is really glamorous and tiring.
Sleeping with my childhood wardrobe in a garden centre
responsibly and respectfully sharing my angst with the lobelia
I might recline like a cat but I wouldn’t sell my wares openly
I wouldn’t want to be that memory-cat with the power to die the power
to be put back on my feet I came to see you’d been eaten by tar sands
and cat didn’t exist what kind of a country is this
what did you say I missed that
I miss that cat
Just Handcuff Me
Then paint me the sum of polygamy.
Tender brawny snippets, pear pips
& a drainpipe running down to the
sea. Not you not me.
With night you come stomping,
It’s kristallnacht in my dream —
why did you shave our heads?
When will we reinvent love?
Look at me orbiting the earth:
cool extreme organic oil.
I tower above the Shard wearing my
new raspberry jeans and orange t-shirt.
Some worlds still purr apart
a fly or fact or loaf
some people are just called bodies
but I’d rather die clean on the spot!
Some feel a baby kicking.
Asterisk nipples the real September
I began and where I started. With
shining intuition. Esoteric holler.
Pin on your hopeless dream
blu-ray flash bird now I see devotion
mapping through a soft-top
then I am watching the blue leaf
Then I am Piccolo Mondo, killer of joy boys
and the third wave and I have been
a long time coming in the ovens.
The foothills are fleshing out, obituaries
are turning the corner of the street
to meet you dissipated and tuck the corner of
the sheet among your family maybe wash
your house down at dawn,
maybe make a genius snowman
let it float towards the future asking itself
what bloated life can be, turning
to the wall asking, what snow can be?
I have been a long time coming
The sun and the prince go on and on,
pulling on each other, looking for a party,
caught with their tails on fire
or worse, fucking with a weaponless pigeon.
Now I see devotion pulling and cover versions
cascading to the pit of the archive
where my hand is now, grubby Peyko-chic
Whatever drainage stinks down the wall
I will still,
Any flames can eat me up
You know —
Delinquency forgets its echo Yea
Karaoke was always sung across two seas
Or why, in the Dalston CLR James
Library in the blonde ages
the enquiries could melt a man’s
heart, or touch him, make a fool of
him, or spread like bible engines
and really sorrowful. At that desk
we first knew the time I didn’t have
the cash on me, that was when
Big fence like might you broke.
I thought you might be the shredded
water beneath my hair, my
Enlightened life. I thought the
steam room into Stevie Nicks’ head
Revolving on Stevie Nicks’ neck.
It’s not that I condone heraldry to get
close to death and colours
it’s that my feet are frequently misled
via Pontoon Dock or West Silvertown
where I see an LED soul frazzle hanging
& chicken bones rule the roost
where sometimes it demeans us
to where things leave us
and where we leave things
alone, dancing on
the showboat, a glazed wooden brain.
What’s not great about this is this:
in the soft fruit brain, what’s binary
and what’s not *poverty under the sun
*software that knows you and the two
of us asleep on Pluto where, if a porn image
ever dumbs up, hits itself in the eye
needs love phobia of love or
stickies, I will be there to give it.
So bad I need money, I hire out benignity
I’m huh your syndicat d’initiative
go bounce in the night
Hug me —
“tell me it’s okay not to be modern,”
that Louise Labe would’ve made believe
Not found goat in her bed
not sunk head-first into woolly Caracas
called her mum to say “call me.”
It’s not that I want a showy title
I just want to believe I saw the arrows
Pointing to each hole in the sky
you’ve gone to buy me a birthday present
of voluminous capacity, I
know where things leave us blown across
the window where the sound of train rolls
or at night wake up: to me, my favourite
time was in the street, junky cuss
but aside from this tenet what I see is
bands of poems: hairspray-encrusted plenary power
my self-pity bawling with the local yoga babies
that when I was too tepid was when my heart rubble
and my milk feet.
Coax down the decade
pine away palinode
stretch roving echo
to Vancouver’s alacrity
a shaky shoe-rack above Japan,
the atmosphere’s an apple layer for us
our opal loss
my fresh apple:
x x 0 x
x x xx xo
0 :) x
Sarah Dowling Amy De'Ath