|
 She won a Northern Arts writers award
in 1998. In July 2000 she
read at Waterstones bookshop to promote the anthology 'Titles
Are Bitches'. Christmas 2001 Her collection LOVEBITES published
by Chanticleer Press, 6/1 Jamaica Mews, Edinburgh. She also have
a BBC webpage
www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/gay.2004/05/section_28.shtml and
http://www.bbc.co.uk/tyne/videonation/stories/gay_history.shtml
She has written poetry reviews for Poetry Scotland and
Jacket Magazine and in August 2007 I made a film called 'A Blank
Screen, 60 seconds, 1 shot' for Queerbeats Festival at The Star
& Shadow Cinema Newcastle, reviewing a poem...see
www.myspace.com/queerbeatsfestival
Modal Variety
Happiness - formless as gloss
Fleets the translucency, a certain
Benign sophistical light
Over rift valleys,
Block mountains
Peaked for arcs, flitting feathers.
As youngsters we moved
In such proximity as this
Snags, of intrigue, pulling
Vast intrinsic spaces.
Silent brooding augury
Around topiary.
Strolling dogs ran
Demons, drunks.
To the back of the house
At threnody pace, windows blacked.
You found him
Pasty, stiff with death.
Last warning
Echoing live speech.
“Denis, Denis, come inside
you’re getting all wet.”
A shot of maraschino, distance
That had always been there.
Night thinning vapour
To dimmer light.
Model warp
After applying
Constellations of glitter
Around the eyes
She suddenly found she could dance
Live without air
Running backwards
Through firm-walled tunnels
She had apricot velvety fur
Tail-whiskers, heavily clawed feet
Easily hidden in a nest of grass and leaves
The touch sensors on her nose
Knew well the low-lying areas
Foresaw flooded burrows
A forward roll…
An upright tail…
A touch of magic…
Is all it takes
To dodge the Mole Catcher.
Moderns Are Quadrivial
The superfoetation of poets
Is weightless
Constructing Art
Out of newspaper cuttings
Superimposing
In cartoon version
A riddling obliqueness.
Do we understand
Your talking flowers,
Your children
Clucking like hens?
A job at Lloyd’s Bank
Pays less randomly
Than words
Picking themselves
From a hat.
In primitive
Grammarless speech
Unread books lunch
Under endless reification
With knots too tight
Diamond scented
In a web of glue.
Modus Operandi, Prime Minister Style
He opens these lips, runs my head,
I’m stuck
To the Manipulator’s stretching hand.
But a third body signs
For the voice production-line.
This front is an historic knock-about
That you digi-bleep collusions on.
I’m the statesman
Propped on a bench
All-ears to His persuasive tape, grinning.
The public’s docility is contagious.
Ah bring it on…
|
