Luke Emmett - Four Poems

Luke Emmett


Soliflor

      – for Tim Allen

In the waking night
the dead
screaming, forever,
have a nature of rot;

should
I return to you,
with you –
a poppy blows – copper
in glass paradise, after
I’ve gone away.

 

Projection

       – Don’t let them rush to strike the bell

I avoid eye contact
and we exchange drug talk –
she’s ex social services –
as the mental state exam
rings, it is midday,

her mask – this is me –
had endeared her to a
penitent on broken sleep
and – sure – a small lap
on gravel

that I notice her exit
is half the sojourn.

 

 

Additional Ink

Two solipsists meet
in a drunk request.
My will is bloody
parabolic with time.

It is mapped to trick – this
narrow track / ... pavement /

– inked on pale skin.

Chalk won’t dust
all solicitudes.
In awkward signatures
of proxy illness

my past loves are
a single punch
that kills the baby.


 

Your destination

Shoes lost in place
in untidy rooms –  thirty square
but well lit.

By 3pm the floor
is ash hot as new cuts
to fingertips: boring wood

to make fire
, in each
utterance in each tap
is a kiss.
 

 

 

Copyright © Luke Emmett, 2020