Monday, 3 December 2012

Anna Percy, 9 poems


week one:

pattern for knitted

swimming trunks

will pay postage



week two:

Record by The Turtles

She’s Rather Be With Me

willing to pay all costs



week three:

Eye needed for an emu

(Rod Hull’s 70cm/27 1/2 in puppet).

Will pay costs



week four:

knitting pattern for a

lady’s jumper with a

blue and white chinese

willow pattern on the front



week five:

Aretha Franklin CD

or cassette, The First Time

Ever I Saw Your Face.

will pay all costs.



week six:

Microwave Cookery Books

Will pay postage.



Week seven:

Manual or photocopy

for a Sharp QL310

portable memory display

typewriter. Will pay costs.



Week eight:

Instructions for a sony

ericksson K7001 mobile

phone. will pay costs



Week nine:

Copy of  the late Steve Conway’s song,

My Thanks To You.

Will reply to all letters.

Will pay postage and expenses.



Week ten:

Hayne’s Ford Focus

LX 2011 car manual.

Will pay costs.



Week eleven:

Knitting pattern for

anything using two odd

pins, one small and one

large. Will pay any costs.



Week twelve:

DVD of the film, The

Merry Widow.

*

I’ve got so much love to give I just don’t know where to put it

You are ready to notice something
you offer all
while guarding close
you want our bodies to buck, bite, give in.
You’ve got to care
We merge interest,
I ‘ll wear that polka dot dress
and you know I always fall head over heels
for boys with holes in their converse.
You illuminate me, cherry lips
when you forsake your vision,
you are my vacancy.
Palmstruck as you were
you caught me, contained me
palm to palm an arm wound round my waist
you might even reach my high anxiety
which performs it’s lies
paid out in transformed flesh
my head is in a bitter whorl
you can sweeten me honey
I know about the snowdrop in your suit pocket
next to the parker pen and your spring leaf tie
you shout your dilemma to appear:
”how to write the stars you know while breathing dust!”

*

Work of Art

Mark my words, it’s not just that
it’s Hyper-real, fast moving,
all the names I’ve promised
vying in a tiny hive
That summer was spiked with jewels
sculpted, elegant, photo-real
Why am I telling you all this?
breathless, rattling off candid matters
It went up in flames, a riot
An awareness in the blood line
Nine years of alarm, a lack of structure
She didn’t have a clue.
Seeing the stars she couldn’t sew,
dreamt of perfume bottles, glass blowing.
Inspired to cause a stir, proud of it
dresses kaleidoscopic, swirls solid.

*

the courage of night makes my ink flow faster
cover of dark pushes dirty saucepan piles
out from the side of my mind
there is the page and me
not what I didn’t say to him in the train station
and how I wished I had bent like a tattered tulip
in the rain and kissed him in the space after
‘’I might not’’
the unmade bed folds itself away scattered books and all
the pen stops resisting my fingers
the spilt ink becomes less bothersome
I forget the ex who loathed those splots
reminded him of his own empty hands
I know that writing is my most constant lover
and my most fervent friend  of unending tolerance
even as I score pages unevenly

*

For Michelina Lewandowska

 "I could breathe and I breathed very delicately."

She cut her way out with her engagement ring
he left her that so that they would know
she was owned even underground.
I suspect that as he placed the branch on top
(a third of her body weight I posit from
the smiling photo pixelated in the metro)
larger than the child they had,
I imagine him holding one end
his friend on the other, assessing its weight
comparing the pull he feels in his tricep with the dangling child.
He did not think he would have to face her and tell the court:
‘’the intention was to scare you: to frighten you off
It was not with the intention to kill you’’
And that the holes in box where he had carried her
tasered, gagged, bound, in a warm jumper to make her comfortable
were air holes, and not where his fists had been visible
as they laid the box into the hole.

*

twist want,  you’re not a telephone,
facing multiple problems is daunting
history is needed to avoid rows,
making as many mistakes as I can.
Time wasting evening turns to park music
the scandal of your opinion
counts to move on

*

why I will not fuck you

I am sure your tongue is artful and practised
but being pursued by you is no compliment
no woman wants to feel interchangeable
all I am is a challenge, I won’t offer up
the body parts you praised in silver plated tones
you expect me to be impressed by pure mechanics
and that hip roll you learned from screen
I want a man to honour me with his fucking
to feel that laying hands on me is privilege
and not a right

I cannot appraise the contents of your heart
by looking at your cock
I do not wish to possess it just for this
merely to know what is inside it

*

We viewed relics,

supposedly enclosed:

the flesh which pumped,

spewed, such cells recieved

highest by popes, priests

beside white brittle lies of

cock,s legs stole from

the pot, the cook,s eye

she swore focused out the glass:

the silver fork stuffed

bloomers of the house

opposite,s boy brought up,

his lust extreme

his teeth chewed just roots

over the hedge forever

whole deer cover his buffet.

*

Dear Birdhouse,



We are instructed to make a little birdhouse in our soul. Where does one place such an object when one does not believe in such a theological construct. It supposes a soul has a hole in it, that you could with a thumb, slit it like a fragrant almost human tanned skinned apricot, thumb a space deep inside, a little room for a man to hide or place the birdhouse in afterwards closing the flesh, hiding starlings. Fluttering forever in your soul, the cause of emotional fervour; trapped flight. The birdhouse shrunk as simply as a child perceives their own translucent thumbnail to be the equal if the cresent moon. Romans called the soul the animus; to remind us we are all animals, our arms featherless wings, we have spent our lives as a species relearning how to fly once we were grounded by evolution,

Yours perplexed,

*

Anna Percy was born and educated in Norwich. Graduated from Manchester University in 2009 is the author of two chapbooks Ghosts at the Dinnertable (2007) and Typewriter Sparks (2011) Her blog iswww.mostlynocturnalscribbler.wordpress.com She has been writing for performance and publication around the country for eight years. Her work encompasses love, loss losing your mind the pastoral and the surreal.


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