Peter Hughes & Simon Marsh


a kind of fractured whole


& so we end up here
   where brickwork stops
    pack jump leads
       goat skin snare
          chicken drumsticks
. . . love the way
the bone slips free
when cooked. . .
          the Witch once sexted
       from 'neath her Sunday roast
    I thought Pollock dripping
   was a North Sea toasty
'til that picnic
at the Maunsell Forts
   they seem so tiny now
    pegged to the eventlessness
       of this horizon
where ghost-writers go
   to flail in frail darkness
    yet we're still here
       we cling & stare
the harsh unclutterings
 of a hurried heart
always made us
 twitch & flutter
     have you had your Pukka Pie?
   if not try birthday tea
  of zite tossed
 in pork cheek sauce
then glide as slow day spills
 a tired side of beef
impacted dreams
 of rootless voicings
perhaps a bit of trumpet
 ripples through your glass or two
         since you ask
the drive still does me in
yet first sun on green corn
 craves pinks dipped in light
  & ghost notes frame silence
   word tunes hum
     seismic    vaguely bound
the paper never leaves the pen
a beach re-ribbed at every tide
 curl up inside
  the inside of your whale
   & tap them out
        in love's long code
marimbian notes condense
  as drops of unblown glass
      & vibe beyond
       a membrane
  of cloud

Varzi, 10th May 2016