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    Some Call Them Interludes

    Before    Time was once apple  skinned and quartered  still hanging from the tree,  as if a disembowelled astronaut  hanging from moon gallows    At the hill’s summit  we knelt among the dead,  ate the rancid gifts from their bodies  flesh of berries, mouths and holes    of skin, until the sky  darkened...

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    • I always like it when someone starts with an object, “Apple,” and ends with the same object. This is good. I enjoyed it.

    • Yeesh! I’m hoping Del skips this one! (we’re planning a ’27 wedding). lol.
      Your poetic strength is maybe lost on some readers, because you go deep like this. There’s geometry in this creation, angles and dark corners. I can take the weight, though, when reading your powerful lines. Because there is reward in finding the meanings and how we perceive it all. Outstanding depth here.

    • As always Mark, I’m so pleased someone gets me.

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    Dream-Making in the Suburbs

    At night asleep  Alison's dreams are scattered  across the bedroom wall  like grainy cine film    No sound from the  nocturnal soap opera,  just hum of Alison sleeping  against somnolent city rhythm    Amber streetlights  steal through red curtains,  waiting for insomnia cinema to begin    Alison's legs up and apart  reminder, we touch...

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    Melt Into You

    Scrunch your body of work  inside my arterial gallery,  scrimshaw shotgun breaths  double-barrelled into every bone    Pearly dew drops   peel drought from land,  my hands act as gutters   brushing rain o’er skin,  gulping moisture before  it sinks under the ground    At the end of the ellipsis  webs hang...

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    Week in the Life of an Insomniac's Dreams

    Monday    I travelled through the night to try and find you    Tuesday    Awake in the far away  it could be July or December,  bones rattled under sleeping blankets  like a beggar’s hand cupped to receive silver    Wednesday    Perchance to dream my way back to  the music of our rains  and...

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    • Rob, your poem drifts like a half-remembered dream, tender and yearning. Each day carries longing, memory, and desire. The way you reach for someone across nights and cities is heartbreakingly beautiful. Even sleeplessness feels like a lover in your words.

      Beautifully done

      • Thank you Roma. Life becomes a two-storey building collapse, with past on one level and present on the other. The trick is to navigate through the rubble.

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    'No Dad, We Won't Be Home Tonight'

    For eighteen months before   alzheimer’s shred his soul  I trapped my father’s voice  in the answering machine    Palimpsest of tobacco teak  lay over his Nottingham dialect,  did Robin Hood fire similar phonemes  into the deepest of oak?      The familiar sibilants which once read me into  other universes in...

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    • My father had dementia. I have written notes but no answering machine voice which would be really great. You’re lucky. You have some unique writing here. Glad I read this. Good one.

    • I wasn’t expecting the pictures this painted with words. It was so vivid that I could feel those memories even though they weren’t my own.

    • That’s a really moving and powerful piece. The way you capture your father’s voice and the layers of memory, from the “palimpsest of tobacco teak” to the echo of his working life, is just beautiful. It really makes you feel the weight of what’s been lost and the preciousness of that preserved memory.

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