Issue 16 · 2012






by Iain Britton







a swirling white anatomy


    comes fondling


              partially asphyxiating


this vigilante alert on hard ground





the uninvited

shuffle about me

                           jostle like llamas

                        behave like llamas


my directive is one of interference


i steal images from their mouths


           slide deliberately between individuals


               zoom in on sun damage


                              skin fur /     moles /        botoxed layers


the rain presses against the windows


             dampness clings /      this





     summer clings


i’m alert to the slightest mood swing


                these people seem intent on


strengthening their brotherhood


they bristle and shout


              so many gods


      so many pulses


                         so many


                who want to fire at will



    they live for skating across


                                    the moon’s black mirrors


                they take only a few personal possessions ...


go with their deities


flashing their forked tongues


 their eyes





i drink            from the sky’s deep trough


              a fresh perception



the uninvited


                 trespass on


         this vigilante’s


            bruised dugout in the clay


they herd together /           uncertain / excited


they feel pulses


the war throb in bellies


           some leap off cliffs


           of collapsed rock


     still fighting





                   party long into the summer’s midnight



               i snatch


                    keepsakes for preservation





my purpose


            has a lot to do

            with the nocturnal

            activities of the fat lady


who laughs cries sells night-club fantasies to comrades-in-arms

who crawl into beds in boxes or under bridges or between flaxes

who snuck under newspaper tents avoid the religious popes and

babblers the christ childs growing up overnight left choosing

timbers for the rest of us to be privileged amongst thieves / to say

that we were there  / had been there with the skinny man who sings

                                 loudest longest is enough


               i steal


                    from the living            and


as real as happily ever after might be


         icons preserved in condoms


take pride of place


give pleasure



a tactile legacy


perpetuated by the silhouette of a stork










Iain Britton is online at