: Scott Thurston :

from Separate Voices

I’ve inoculated it
        I’ve made it safe with
a dose of its own
        toxic medicine – practice
and discipline bind
        to the receptor heads
and it’s a dead
        duck. Over-confident perhaps
overwhelmed to
        start so suddenly so brashly
against the ranked
        opposition bristling with
deadly spikes ranged
        along an eerie sub-sonic
sub-atomic shore

back slap to break
        back an attack a return
to the break beat
        echoes through yesterday’s
kitchen a dull foam
        starts to adhere clouds
over a film but
        another layer accrues where
the note is
        interrupted by a view through
the chink
        it is both and not where I
started from
        forgetting recollection merely
evokes it here
        right before my eyes

the astonishing pleasure
        of another cup of cappuccino
following on from the
        first – the object restored
to itself renewed
        recovered in joy and yet
already the foam
        contracts the bubbles winking
at the brim start
        to go out pocking craters
in the chocolate
        crusting once again restoring
the solid ghost
        of endlessly lost potential
hopelessly regained
        in a gulf of sorrow

telling the time
              by till receipts traced across
a city orients
            my purchasing power – little
disasters bob up
                everywhere: nature scoffs at
the landing stage
               wrecked, sunken in the estuary.
That pontoon
            floated with hope in an earlier
poem unlike
          this one which has already
forgotten its
         ending: not on my abandoned
watch

clutched in the human
        forest the fronds of pikes
held aloft become
        like the sweetest blossom –
thank humanity
        for holding me in enchanted
boundaries an open
        forest moving as a heart
beat wept to
        spit on a open wound – yes
the turn to
        violence again – a punctured
dreamspace
        only elevates the next version
ever nobler
        ever more coming back

a knife amnesty
        of double edged words
who would hold
        it up to glance off
and back hand
        your friends in safe
in the knowledge
        striking out always looks
back into your
        own flesh til nothing
beside remains
        only the blade tall and
shining burning
        over the desert


scottthurston
from Separate Voices I’ve inoculated it I’ve made it safe with a dose of its own toxic medicine – practice and discipline bind to the receptor heads and it’s a dead duck. Over-confident perhaps overwhelmed to start so suddenly so brashly against the ranked opposition bristling with deadly spikes ranged along an eerie sub-sonic sub-atomic shore back slap to break back an attack a return to the break beat echoes through yesterday’s kitchen a dull foam starts to adhere clouds over a film but another layer accrues where the note is interrupted by a view through the chink it is both and not where I started from forgetting recollection merely evokes it here right before my eyes the astonishing pleasure of another cup of cappuccino following on from the first – the object restored to itself renewed recovered in joy and yet already the foam contracts the bubbles winking at the brim start to go out pocking craters in the chocolate crusting once again restoring the solid ghost of endlessly lost potential hopelessly regained in a gulf of sorrow telling the time by till receipts traced across a city orients my purchasing power – little disasters bob up everywhere: nature scoffs at the landing stage wrecked, sunken in the estuary. That pontoon floated with hope in an earlier poem unlike this one which has already forgotten its ending: not on my abandoned watch clutched in the human forest the fronds of pikes held aloft become like the sweetest blossom – thank humanity for holding me in enchanted boundaries an open forest moving as a heart beat wept to spit on a open wound – yes the turn to violence again – a punctured dreamspace only elevates the next version ever nobler ever more coming back a knife amnesty of double edged words who would hold it up to glance off and back hand your friends in safe in the knowledge striking out always looks back into your own flesh til nothing beside remains only the blade tall and shining burning over the desert
scott thurston began writing in the poetry scene situated around Gilbert Adair’s Sub-Voicive Poetry reading series and Bob Cobbing’s New River Project workshops in London in the late eighties. His books include Poems Nov 89 - Jun 91 (Writers Forum, 1991), State(s)walk(s) (Writers Forum, 1994), Turns (with Robert Sheppard) (Ship of Fools/Radiator, 2003). His full-length collection, Hold: Poems 1994-2004 (2006) is published by Shearsman. He lectures in English and Creative Writing at The University of Salford and lives in Liverpool. He edits The Radiator, a journal of contemporary poetics. See his pages at www.archiveofthenow.com/