Steve Willey

Blackened Windows on an Aida Camp Watchtower 

A taut arc or imagine
no cats or any night,

frozen dusk stood at the congruence
When blood rejects the eye unlit,
just four,
cigarettes, the risible stench of this –
Means it is still just there. Just see it.

Or if high thieving clouds bypass fast feel the night apex press hard against
your chest. It is there, there under a little weight, a compass point settles on
your solar plexus.
Feel it.

In measures so that a scorch of the radial dusk fire defects watched muscles
sweat a whitish cell on the fixes.

The tower fits, a bad prosthetic
accelerant burns in marrow’s moment throw
articulated dreamt gouged out to poems constrict 
rimmed out, rim out unthreaded care, out but push out to no internal

Out to nothing but rent back to back on rooftops, bleach flushes pale arid
light to dirt.
Thought stained recalls cracked olives seared faced canted to concealment

Wrought iron bars exposures jut, turn you towards the green lash of fields
they irrigate their conviction's threshold,
to circumference.

When the char smears the watchtower.
When an ashen iris leaves the damage in
just stand.

I am just a cultish llama paranoid returning under the bright green acts of

The flowers on Gilo are so heavy
they are seen to break the hill. 




Spring in London

Come in from a warmth my small gazelle drill
Scaffolding green of caltrop pierce-hoof
For it is now midday and I'm in need of pigeons
Canted-builder, undead-mesh, brackened-eyes
Closets and kisses fold you up something proper
No today is not the day for something proper
Extinguish curls –

And when I was a poacher the room was pink
In summer O' microwaves where the birds burst
And the shields turn in face to slit faces the pretty
Polices, and Luke

I garnered up the violence for you, I placed it in this bird
Will you hold it? Yet still, while you face it, will you come
In from my mouth, for it is now past midday, and I'm in need
Of poems –

Fuck off to find a fallow field mouse gangrene and empty
For he is out in the lower gut of my tiny Luke bird,
Shitting out green –
And I heard you ill the city - so are you my slow gazelle,
Or worse - are you my drill-field. And am I the closet terrorist
When even your kisses fear me –

Where even the birds sought my door to die?