Tag Archives: Christopher Clark

Triangular rows

by Christopher Clark

on silver platters, pointed

like graves gathered by the fireplace in

remembrance. Trails of sodden souls


in polyester skin make their way through.

They carry in heavy, escalating misery on

backs of men, pressed trousers to the ground. I


watched oldest legs and how they could stand

faces betraying strained remarks, eyes once marked

now dull. They are cloths left by the sink side,


to spurt mould in final utterance, dampened

protest at the use now squeezed out from

underneath the sneaky tricks of younger charlatans.


A silent dance, where legs fly and the air stews

its sweat, boiling under the effort from lowered

tones, breath baited in galleries, those stiffened corpses



I pass through like a graceful elephant, glib and

uncaring. Between false smiles and grimaced charms

I laugh at every one of them. The star of my runway,


I fill each lens to the brim, over-spilling

remorse and regret and everything laid between,

papered over empty joy, scraped from yesterday


it’s stale, taste of unfinished sentences and unfulfilled

chance. I am gluttonous to this. I drink it like a fine wine.

Drunk for a chance to look back and see barren sympathy


waiting for me, a belated gift or an old acquaintance arriving

thirty minutes late. Mouths move without noise, just

like before. Reaching the end of the room, I can only wonder.


After We Finish

by Christopher Clark

you turn to me and start talking

about things

like how much you’ve lost

or gained

as the credits roll

names, titles and places scroll by

and you’ll sit musing

addressing originality and meaning.


i sit quietly, wondering

dress sizes and legitimacies

until you finish talking, i equate

a cigarette, putting on your jacket

and passing every reflective surface

touching up ‘til we step out

on to the street.


by Christopher Clark

I couldn’t save you that day

when you fell from the sky.


Amongst aerial strings, you tore

between teeth lining and ephemera


like when we played as small children.

And all I asked for back was one second


of still to remain instead of strung

skin and wilting flowers tearing away


at happiness like thirty seconds of conversation

and twelve hours flying through slow-moving


flares, drawing away years, until all that

lagged behind was burning inside you,


a body worn like a solitary costume

left behind in a dress up box, somehow



forgotten about, sprung out suddenly

and shattering careful considerations


placed down by the foundations,

under ground and beside one another.

Shared Space

by Christopher Clark

The bar emptied, you took

me home. Lightly traipsed

streets to a dimly lit room.


Decades knick knack walls,

rugs from an Indian street stall,

gap year 2004. Comic strips of


film expose youthful remain –

early holidays, old lovers, first

and last days – before they got


cold. All that’s left is fading,

ink that’s evaporating in passing

seconds. Multiple eyes watch, over


dominating knowledge, in

trails, coming down sight with

semi satisfied smiles, they unsettle me.



When you asked me to occupy, did you

wonder the meaning to share such places

of feeling? Ghosts leave me standing


a thousand latent noises

winding paths and lights, smashing

glass into scars that flicker. Ankles


draw blood and sleep sticks

making demands, velcro scratches

on me, until I’m unsure


if I’m still standing, wasting

last remains of space,

fast shrinking.

I want to buy a riverboat

by Christopher Clark

To sail down streams with you,

Ears pricked by licks of water, stroking

Iron wrinkles out from murky cloth.


                I prefer to be narrow and straight,

                You zig-zag like a fire-fly

                Absconding fractions from the moon


                                Or a Chinese lantern I must let go of,

                                Swept along the bristles of balmy night breezes,

                                Lifting up to dizzy heights of heaven


                                                Before your shell comes crashing down to Earth.

                                                Shredded paper falling, like jagged feathers

                                                All pointed stems and stings in neck scarves


                                                It leaves me without breath

                                                Around the constricts of my chest,

                                                A thousand pollen threads have tied a ribbon


                                Through my ribcage, packaged me up

                                Stamped and sealed, I only muster enough air

                                For a simple, solitary cough.


                You must think me weak-willed in silence

                While underneath I fight through shredded clots

                Of blackened blood, by nibs driven down cracks


Pounding on ivory, furious and more frantic.

Like one final, frustrating performance, you play

The sonata of my heart.

Chapped Sticks

by Christopher Clark

Draining fat from a steak, think

Of glamour, gold and mocha. Syllables

Fall as blood. I watched them gush from lips.


Old stones and gloomy Sunday, the street’s

Finally exploding. Her veins, they’re frying,

All fatty smoke and barges, a way for chasing tail.


Hollow, strung-out and stale, roll them sleeves up, son.

Among kettles and the cannons, loop back through

Swaying faces bold with rage, sick of lonely hope to find her.