Emily Hinshelwood
And When All Else Fails
And when all else fails
at least there is light.
Even in the tight sphincter of hell
a fire burns
in the hollow well of tear-stained yearning
salted water glistens.
Listen
even in the darkest mood of the cruellest mind
a drop of good uncurls.
There is still gold in the guts of the world.
Flecks and specks slipped between
thick grains of night
like salt among black peppercorns.
I select a spark of white
a tiny gram that heralds the dawn
and place it between the lines on my palm.
A glass bubble in the purist trance
a droplet of dew on a blade of grass
a boule pregnant with chance
whispering a weighty prayer
catching my breath in the midnight air.
I pop it in my mouth
where, like space dust it sings across my taste buds.
I tease it with the tip of my tongue.
I lick and suck
and slip the iced white drop
in and among the hungry folds of tongue
and I ease it to the front
glass bead clenched between my teeth
and I bite
I crush that tiny speck of light
a fission, a flash
a crash of splintered shards of bright
colours splash
flood gushing
blood red, sunburst yellow, tangerine.
It streams across my lips
and drips in heady scent
tinged in gold and edged with bold brilliance
it glows, and
it flows in lusty anything goes potency
I slurp and
slap and swallow
and gorge on the leaked rainbow
a distilled spectrum of desire
and fire ignites my deepest fear
burning it far
far into the darkest night.
at least there is light.
Even in the tight sphincter of hell
a fire burns
in the hollow well of tear-stained yearning
salted water glistens.
Listen
even in the darkest mood of the cruellest mind
a drop of good uncurls.
There is still gold in the guts of the world.
Flecks and specks slipped between
thick grains of night
like salt among black peppercorns.
I select a spark of white
a tiny gram that heralds the dawn
and place it between the lines on my palm.
A glass bubble in the purist trance
a droplet of dew on a blade of grass
a boule pregnant with chance
whispering a weighty prayer
catching my breath in the midnight air.
I pop it in my mouth
where, like space dust it sings across my taste buds.
I tease it with the tip of my tongue.
I lick and suck
and slip the iced white drop
in and among the hungry folds of tongue
and I ease it to the front
glass bead clenched between my teeth
and I bite
I crush that tiny speck of light
a fission, a flash
a crash of splintered shards of bright
colours splash
flood gushing
blood red, sunburst yellow, tangerine.
It streams across my lips
and drips in heady scent
tinged in gold and edged with bold brilliance
it glows, and
it flows in lusty anything goes potency
I slurp and
slap and swallow
and gorge on the leaked rainbow
a distilled spectrum of desire
and fire ignites my deepest fear
burning it far
far into the darkest night.
Page(s) 44-45
magazine list
- Features
- zines
- 10th Muse
- 14
- Acumen
- Agenda
- Ambit
- Angel Exhaust
- ARTEMISpoetry
- Atlas
- Blithe Spirit
- Borderlines
- Brando's hat
- Brittle Star
- Candelabrum
- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
- Coffee House, The
- Dream Catcher
- Equinox
- Erbacce
- Fabric
- Fire
- Floating Bear, The
- French Literary Review, The
- Frogmore Papers, The
- Global Tapestry
- Grosseteste Review
- Homeless Diamonds
- Interpreter's House, The
- Iota
- Journal, The
- Lamport Court
- London Magazine, The
- Magma
- Matchbox
- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
- Moodswing
- Neon Highway
- New Welsh Review
- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
- Oxford Poetry
- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
- Poetry London
- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
- Poetry Review, The
- Poetry Salzburg Review
- Poetry Scotland
- Poetry Wales
- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
- Rain Dog
- Reach Poetry
- Review, The
- Rialto, The
- Second Aeon
- Seventh Quarry, The
- Shearsman
- Smiths Knoll
- Smoke
- South
- Staple
- Strange Faeces
- Tabla Book of New Verse, The
- Thumbscrew
- Tolling Elves
- Ugly Tree, The
- Weyfarers
- Wolf, The
- Yellow Crane, The