Sometimes a whole year slips by.
Verity said the Inuit died
as ice closed around their meat-holes.
There is always skin, skin on ruins,
trawls
in chlorine. I wave moronically
at widow peaks, a window’s orange fire,
at bone receding cringe,
pink telluric kids inspecting jetsam
in the illusional pool. My reptilian friend, welcome,
can I just ask:
will I return as an aimless splash?
I stop briefly like an axe,
or an accident in ever distant directions,
in the glow of snaky ankles
journeying past the treading-water of alphas,
damsels, sea-nymphs, the stonier shallow
end of cities where the mystisk flow
is winning:
Man in the splash of himself,
there’s never enough splashisms.
Warring narwhals swim butterfly
till they’re made for each other. Fluttery
gets me nowhere and signals the end
of my lesson, so I wave moronically
at the window’s orange fire then jump
into the final conversation of a swollen blue tongue.
Jared Sagar is a writer living in the United Kingdom. He began writing poetry late 2018/early 2019, and his themes tend to be about isolation, confusion, self-doubt, while trying to play with language, trying to say things differently with each poem he writes. He is also an electronic music composer, and has released many albums on independent labels around the world.
Image: Matt Howard, unsplash.com
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Heavy Feather Review 