Popcorn dust speckles my deck
Ink shakes at the mountain solvents
On the hooks of your dress
Merging with a line from March
Blue bossa-nova pills and a Schweppes
Coming off to Piers Ploughman
A bright horn in the snow
Twinkles entitled “mystical bread pump poems”
Walking out in the grasslight
Plump green acorns fill my sack
The spine-line is a clear sign
& the fields are covered in moonbuttons
Oestrogen rises on the Eastern horizon at last
I shall ride with the bunnies to Brighton
Petrarch 309
Now that it is 1340-something I am finally without myself & with women
On behalf of my peace of mind I must turn my back on popular culture milk paperbacks blogging & travel without fear of incontinence
Being old is five centuries of tales held together with sellotape
& awaiting urn burial
Content for if the bad guys are asleep & sucking in the cool blue
Smoke of a cigarette’s smoke
It is easy to be in love with a perfect voice singing towards & surrounding love
But for the ones with herpes short ones & cleft palates in 67 sonnets
Silence surpasses everything in the Italian language
It is often but not always enough like koalas or elephants just to live
Without gender looking at the moon like Nat King Cole
Pressing his bare feet into the cool grass of his Hollywood lawn
The point of writing is to sing beyond what you know & to remain awake
This is the notion which feeds & informs me
Tim Atkins is the author of Folklore 1-25, To Repel Ghosts, 25 Sonnets, and Horace. Senior Lecturer in Creative Writing at UEL, editor of the online poetry magazine onedit, and translator of Petrarch, Horace, and Buddhist texts, he is a Buddhist, husband, poet, and father. He is a happy man.
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