Joseph Rye
Track
I walk and see coats of red, bags of nothing and faces with no reason, thundering on, mincing towards mainline market security. I protect myself with a guilt-quilt.
I do not need you to give me my art, that is an easy and less expensive drug to find, the pavement, the square, the lines and cracks bending towards the end, a foot high, a foot thick, at eye level to a terrier, set down those stilettos, crease those trouser legs, you have your pay check and so do I.
The dark passenger car, time on my hands, time we have invented to hold ourselves up, to make us civilised, for what, I wait for no-one and own the playtime bell.
Page(s) 161
magazine list
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- Cannon's Mouth, The
- Chroma
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- Dream Catcher
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- French Literary Review, The
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- Iota
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- Lamport Court
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- Magma
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- Matter
- Modern Poetry in Translation
- Monkey Kettle
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- Neon Highway
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- North, The
- Oasis
- Obsessed with pipework
- Orbis
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- Painted, spoken
- Paper, The
- Pen Pusher Magazine
- Poetry Cornwall
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- Poetry London (1951)
- Poetry Nation
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- Poetry Salzburg Review
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- Private Tutor
- Purple Patch
- Quarto
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- 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