Where the

Black rock

Is soaked

In silver spray,



My guttural baritones


Bowed strings of longing


Come in to my cove,

My black wings



I cannot


A halo


But you and I, we

Could circle the fire


Let the howl

Of the wild

Rip the skin

From the waters


It will never

Tear the tears

From closed eyes

So please,



And Settle


In the crook

The cradled bay

And I will set us in stone

If you will stay



There is no better sound;

the greatest opus

The caught breath

between thrusts

As her father calls

from beyond the walls

And a gulp slips away down a throat


The smoking gun

A peeling onion

and the tears of realisation

tearing out the truth talking noise clutter

It is guilt.


Pulled through in puppet strings

A thread long

A tight wire – line straight, an endless

unravelling of the mind inside


It is the music of tension,

the eternity of waiting


It is taking

the talking for a talking to

Away beyond the sidelines

Downstairs behind the kitchen door

and out through the garden, the garage,

the secret corner and the sly cigarette your father

will never show unto your mother


It is the monolith

in white block

One giant eraser ready

for the painting over

The one coat non drip glossing over a canvas

A cosmic napkin wiping the crumbing

of the messy eating of language

and the swirling amateur chaos of colour mixing


A palette trashed

A square punch to a whiteout

A collapse from a breakdown

And the blurring, the peaceful nothing

Of a hospital bed in morphine

With a sawn off shotgun

and a hearing all sewn up

A hearing

O, finally a hearing

without a judgement;


A hearing we don’t have to listen to.


by Greg Webster

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