Daily Archives: May 9, 2017

Sunday Brunch Tuesday | Reuben Woolley

Michael Dickel has been so kind as to publish 3 of my poems on Meta / Phor(e) / Play

Click on the link at the top to see the originals with full formatting.

Meta/ Phor(e) /Play

sewing the bright spaces

Reuben Woolley

stitching up the holes


windows where 
the light


see the craters 
the fat 
drops of rain 
in dry dust

looking for me

to hollow out this 

tat         tat         tat

looking for me"
Michael Dickel
Digital landscape from photos

these liquid hills

Reuben Woolley


in my solid earth

		           & how
these mountains grow

listen to grave
	            they talk
to me now & in
my dying

in all their roots

me down / they're waiting


like stones always do

“these liquid hills”—
Amalfi Coast Overlay
Michael Dickel
Digital landscape from photos

a fully moon after all these years

Reuben Woolley

holding myself / still / i am dust floating in torch light.i am tree cutting a sky & rain falls newly just ask for no answer & here’s a lost song.unplay me…

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Rebel Angel in Quest of Moral Compass by Nick Cooke

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

Bugger buggery buggeration

I have lost me m.c.

………………somewhere in the cracks of time

and tomorrow morning I will be called

…..to account for me possessions

…..and when I’m forced to admit me lapse

………………as the rules stand I could be ejected

on the spot, cast out like

……………………………………….that fallen angel who might soon be

me new guvnor if I don’t watch

……me step

I half suspect

…..someone nabbed it

……….while I slept

……………..someone in His pay

trouble is

…..without the fucker itself

the will to track it down

………gradually recedes

it’s a kind of vicious circle

…………that’s pretty bloody vicious

you start to be glad

….your m.c.’s gone

……….you feel a freedom

wasn’t there before


Bastard bastardy bastardisation

I’m out on me ear

………………………St Peter was mortified

by me attitude and choice of…

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A Poem for Frank Postmodernly by Jim Lawrence

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

So I was writing or trying to write a poem riffing on Frank O’Hara’s style (I remember Peter Lawson telling us Frank’s dune buggy crash was ‘a pretty camp death’)just jotting it down off the top of my head in my BAZINGA! notebook that Meredith gave me for a Xmas gift in 2015 or maybe a year or two earlier (memory is so unreliable) but giving it a self-reflexive twist at the end not having anything personal or political or Objectivist or Imagist to write about and because I like his poems and even his essay Personism: a Manifesto which I skimmed when studying postmodern American poetry at university and which I at least understood unlike that Charles Olson essay on Projective Verse or anything about the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poets and what they are getting up to these days and thinking about Anne Waldman putting makeup on empty space when I…

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Not Useless Island by Jude Cowan Montague

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

My ears grow keener in silence; land crabs clatter among wahoo, sailfish, boobies and noddies. Man made this garden, not God. No snakes, for adders would eat eggs and we’d  eradicate them as swiftly as we have our other mistakes: feral cats, ship rats. We emptied out our bags of roots and seeds choosing orange blooms, twisted branches and pine aroma suggesting amorous evenings.

An island made new for beauty: creatures are born to touch. An island made new for truth: people must tell the stars what goes on in their hearts. Our species are into communication. We’ve poised dishes to pick up the tiny friends in the stratosphere.

In this low key jungle voices ring better. Is that you vibrating? I clamber among the tight-lipped rocks praising their sienna black-brown, the designer moss, cushion-tussocks, creepy carpets: our Pacific theatre. Green curtains roll back to announce the court of Ascension.

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Past Perfidious by Jude Cowan Montague

the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

An eye, a pool

two pillars, three trees.

The palace of cool

intelligence leads

two women to a panorama

of red-jacketed warriors

and the bloody encounter of sword

and skin. Criss cross, burgundy



on podiums, busts immobilising

moustaches and epaulettes.

Arms up on glass case,

a curious body looks

down on tiny boats floating

on the blue channel

above which the military mini

aircraft hang from threads.

Cattle keep their inquisitive heads up

in cases on mahogany legs

fashion once thought to display such elegant curves,

French curves,

the setting adding a mysterious varnish

to the bovine horns.

Silent cattle. They don’t chew,

no lowing.

Fans don’t whirr

on the moulded door frames.

No breeze for tourists,

hot, hot, no breeze for attendants

merely oodles and steaks

of faded cow-glory.

Geese fly away

wild across glassy

picturesque fields, reflecting windows

behind the keeper,

who has large hands.


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the curly mind linguistically innovative poetry - weird & risky

if this clinging roseconcoction is a twinperfume to Creeds “Fleurs de Bulgarie”

(and it is) then it accomplishes that with a lot more tones and notes equalling

the same similarity to headiest roses cultivars yet snaking in these roses with

other supporting flowers and raw matter compensating perhaps for the ambergris

which characterizes Creeds perfumery so, with the Guerlinade pillar of Guerlain


I can definitely smell oakmoss, an essential for Guerlain, grounding the as airy

as unbelievable dense bulgarian rose co/smelling also vanilla and wat seems to

me to be cinnamon. and before I now consult the wheel of notes “scentpyramid”

I smelled ylang-ylang and peach. where I smelled cinnamon apparently I could

have detected sandelwood and further there are a lot more supporting elements


the hyacinth which one so overpoweringly gets in Oriza L.Legrands “Marrions

Nous” here seems more subdued within yet another cornucopia of flowers and

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