Underneath the Echo

It’s like blow in a hollow
like didgeridoo —
a coo into madness
low slung low
hammock of an old song
— numb, the breeze of her
cool like swallow

Come song
Come song come gut come loose string
Come song come song come home song

She tap in the window
smear in the middens
drop dead arterial — right now
wheezing in a pump
mumbling in seems

Yes — skin of old gloves
draped over tables boxes and bone
these are abandon
these holes in my prints
crisp in the rips and simply
these are there are and won’t be
underneath and echoed

“Oh, flesh of my flesh come
song of my song come
the river is high come
the bridges are long come.”

Image: 🇸🇮 Janko Ferlič on Unsplash

8 Thoughts

  1. Came to this a bit late Devon but it had me spellbound. A unique style which never limps home and encompasses a dense bundle of promise! Whenever I want a flavour of the mid west I watch Vanishing Point a hippie hero road movie from 1970. Does it for me every time

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