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STEPHEN BRIAN Brady

WANTED words for a poem

sometimes

words are shuffled into place

from

an outback town
in a bar for strangers
passing through

where a few may see your poster
and with nothing more to do
may tag along

and when you view
this rag-bag crew
stand them up in line
against a wall

and then, and then, and then,

[...] Read more

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The Hybrid

spiraling down to earth once more
failed to break the speed of sound
a cloud of dust
as he hits the ground

aspirant angel second-class
reflects in smoky mirror-glass

checks his streamline
furls his wings
with tarnished harp
and broken strings

on the terrace of the 'Bel Epoque' he
raised the tone at the karaoke

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The Sand Lizard

out of a parallel universe he came
and from low -down in the wall
as though he was always there
and I was the intruder
fixed me with unblinking stare

would we both hypnotized
have sloughed off our allotted disguise
and with banners of insignificance unfurled
cried revolution
and glory to uncertainty in our worlds

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Another Last Waltz

hanging on by gravity
we turn to face the sun

a long-legged arthropod
is lightly stepping down
across eternity

the cereals packet has been blindfold
since it's declaration
'18: 36 L1 WX.' et al.

the kitchen wall is Ballroom Blue.

this is Captain Kirk to Bridge,
'lower defence-shields
let the spider through.'

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Night Air

Florence

the stilt-walkers
dipped with the moon
under the arch of Constantoun
out of step
and out of time
from a woodcut
charcoal-black cartoon

stamping stumps
around a square
rooked and prawned
for a restaurateur
advertised
got board with fare

and in stilted lingo
from high in the air
extolled the pizzeria there

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Chess in the Luxembourg Gardens Paris

the volunteering kings and queens
enrobe behind a chequered screen

a bishop's caught in traffic
just outside the gate
and knights whose pennons snag the branches of the trees
where hunched-backs on fold-up chairs
crouching ill at ease

pawns not up for yet another fight
dispersed to benches
in the fading winter light

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C'est Fini Paris

words would only lie
in the folds of table-cloth and die
their eyes measured and withdrew touch
across the wilderness of inner space
they listened for the sounds of breaking through a wall
clung hold to cups pale tasteless empty of it all
and then they rose and flew
slow wing beats trailing feathers
from Cafe Temps Perdus

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A Conversation

a conversation
with Muzac.

and words came
tumbling from lips
poster-size
that filled the room

then soon
as though for a shadow-play
a magic-lantern show
trailing threads of meaning
performed in perfect disarray

and at the final curtain-call
as the players drift away
they listened to the music
and what they'd tried to say

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A Blast from the Past

St. Tropez.

Apollo stepping-out
from the radiator-grille
of a Maserati sports saloon
wiped away the flies
in the dizzle-dazzle of that afternoon

perceived the dullness of the gold
and less than white reflections
in the boutique window

he paused
regrets
maybe a few

and distant thunder

edging forward
in the ice-cream queue

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Crowtalk

crowtalk
on the beach

not about

wave-patterns in the sand
or sky-pools ankle-deep
riding a ten-metre tide
above the west wind

it was not about anything

with a shuffle of feet
a turn of the head

just things which can only be said
across billions of light-years
by intergalactic megaphones in space
in feathers and trainers
said beak to face

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