Unlikely 2.0


   Putting prepositions at the end of sentences is something up with which we will not put. —Winston Churchill


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Three Poems by A.D. Hitchin

Two Buds

We swam together when you had no breasts
our joys rising in the longing eastern skies
undulating weeds stroking hands, arms and
feet

defiantly we stood, naked before cruel local gods.

Today, I saw a brief glimpse of your face among a sea of black umbrellas and marching tides and I wonder if you realised that quick face as mine ... ?

Perhaps we must all suffer loves inconsistencies
the torture of infant bodies bleeding into adulthood.




Alcatraz

Spiders hide the madness, pretty sandwiches filled only on the outside. With symbolic dressing.

Living in
allegories. Mad for visions to be presented. Where dross burns,
burns. Prisons and asylums of mad
ones, each beautiful, fragile
as roses.

We eat
reality like birds
eat
feed and rabbits
eat
lettuce.

A yawning Alcatraz,
the entity within clawing ribs desperate for evolution.

Mathematics

The final datum
from bud.
It was
fed
and the day came, as with all nature,
the time to
eat.

will we remain dutifully?

because I'm sure the universe moved while we were still at the table.

Perhaps the learned can deduce the calculus
those of the 'perfect' language of numbers.

In my dreams
thin winds keep a column and I
awake with nape hairs standing

starlight appears faraway where once it felt
close enough to touch
now the points
of parasols seem too sharp and

offer scant shade at all.




Waiting Room

Six o'clock appointment
faces downcast avoiding eye contact in the cramped quarters of the waiting room, this grey avenue.

Tonight I
will dine well and watch the yellow and pink of sunset
Contemplate the birth of
winter. Her premature dark already closing in;
enfolding,

If I can just keep putting one foot in front of the other I'm sure I'll perform miracles.

Perhaps I will allow the light bulb to invade my bed
step out
of this costume, dead-head the
buds of my embarrassment
climb Everest, muse the sub aqueous stillness of your lips ...

awaiting the coupling that ends the night.


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A.D. HitchinA.D. Hitchin is a poetry and prose writer published extensively in small press and independent journals including BlazeVOX, Dogmatika and 3AM. You can read more at: myspace.com/AntonyHitchin.


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