Friday, 24 January 2014

A poem by Paul Hawkins


Two People Eating a Meal and then Shagging

You brought home a kilo or so of squid:
Armhook, Rams Horn or Comb-Finned.
You slit the bag, a feathery shaped mantle
slithered out.

You washed out its mouth,
rinsed it in cold water, washed away
sand, salt, the sins of the sea.
The cats gathered below the sink.

Before frying, as you held it up,
a little silver fish slid out,
a tiny mirror, a last supper.
It fell to the tiles, to the cats.

As we eat I wonder what I am to you;
tentacles of light or a passing morsel?
As you drizzle olive oil, I`ve an eye
on the stairs, of lapping against your nipple.

After the wine our fingers dance along lips,
we roll into one another’s hips; a whirl-pool
of tongues, legs. The math of the silver fish world,
turning another revolution, is forgotten.



Paul Hawkins is a poet, writer and storyteller. He’s been interested in alternative culture and music, place, protest and survival for as long as we can remember. He curates Untold Boscombe, a locative storytelling project and co-edits poetry pamphlet Boscombe Revolution. He has performed his work at The Royal Opera House, Womad, The Shelley Theatre and other venues across the south-west. His publishing credits include Fit to Work: Poets Against ATOS, The Interpreters House, The Occupy Wall Street Anthology, London Lit Project, The Bath Lit Festival, Museum of Alcohol, Verba Vitae, M58 and the Noir Erasure Poetry Anthology. Paul is based in Bournemouth and is an associate artist of Vita Nova.

1 comment:

  1. Amusingly different but good having read twice now .

    ReplyDelete