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Graham Clifford

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Silt

Unchecked, perspective bends its own rules
along skirting boards, dadoes,
fidgeting to please be excused.

The cutlery drawer is a convoluted mantrap;
primed, extravagantly painful
in novelty, stainless steel ways.

The bomb in the clock is taking forever.

A shower of high speed Morse
on the sunroom’s cracked plastic
tells off of you in forensic detail.

Furry Leylandii silhouettes lean in to earwig,
bristle like geed up mammals
devoid of faces, genitals, all but one stiff limb.

Tongue between teeth, careful,
you – talk – slower, for instance, to a neighbour
about dried chicken blood as a fertilizer:
his passion flowers’ fruitis
the product of fancy upholstery,
bubble gum and mouse livers.

Knots in pine stare blind at Artex, lino:
embarrassed, a handful of daffs droop trumpets

Graham Clifford lives and works as a primary English co-ordinator in East London. A graduate of UEA’s creative writing MA, his poetry has been published widely. He has performed his work at venues such as Hay-on-Wye, the Aldeburgh Poetry Festival and at the Troubadour Cafe.

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