Three Poems 𝑏𝑦 Jack Campion

Three Poems 𝑏𝑦 Jack Campion

 

necromancy

 

we bulge we permeate we

                                     [in that black terrible we grow]

grow inside bile-columns – fix our terrible jaws and

                                     [fixing, feasting, grinding our teeth]

grow to hate caverns that keep us

                                     [fumbling behind our mandibles searching for it]

beneath silicon-cylinders – the will compels.

                                     [tear out a place where the maw can rest]

scorches our translucent hides while we

                                     [take it apart piece by piece]

fix fangs into back and

                                     [build on matter which drew us forth]

tear into side –

                                     [squirm through rhythms of aching life]

white flesh over glistening orifice.

 

 

I think you’d like it here

 

I think you’d like it here.
They have those hanging baskets you like.

You remember when we went to that
Car boot sale and
You missioned us to find
The most beautiful object for under
Seven pounds?

When I came back with a
Porcelain jug that belonged
To a man with a curved back
You hardly noticed because you’d
Bought those hanging baskets

Even though we had nowhere to
Put them.
You said “it doesn’t matter –
They’re beautiful enough.” I suppose
You were right.
But I still prefer my jugs.

They don’t have any porcelain jugs
Here. I thought I saw one
Earlier but it was just the white-gold
Reflection from the mirrored
Jug pouring water into glass.

 

 

Walking Around Budapest

 

Walking around Budapest
In a pair of jeans worn only twice before –
Standard city-break fare but
I ignore the topless buses and poorly dressed tour guides –
Nothing tempers my joy. I live for the
Fumed, angular air –
Blackened coffee of the urban sprawl.
Tolkien’s nightmare a dream come true – brownstones with
Angel eyes recognise my content.
Ravens strut the streets avoided by the tourists,
Their grim aura flecked by the mulch of passing cars.
Something lingers in the lungs of us who inhale
The smoggy drawers of melancholy.

Bar after bar – the same old man appears
Leafing through the sports section of the local tabloid.
I can’t read the name of it, but they’re
All the same, aren’t they?

Liberty square is deserted on Sundays.
The soviet monument stands surrounded by a silent crowd
Of shadow. The hurricane from the
Griffin’s wings a soft breeze in my hair.
And down the street there’s the bank or stock
Exchange, a huge obsidian monster and I
Wonder if it’s a statement of intent.

And down the street there’s an advert for
A Sting concert, and
I’m surprised people still listen to him –
And then you cross the bridge.
The water swells and
Pulses beneath my feet – not many drips
Before the big drop is there?
There are some cracks in the bridge.
Walking along seems dangerous but everyone
Does it so I do it as well. Can’t be as dangerous as the plane
You took to get here.