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V.
Kitchen
over
sink, dead-plugged or
puckered ‘n’ all... huffy.
It’s a kitchen poem
the morning of it, cuffing bottomed out
serrating diameters, so simple there, cut-
-ting fingers up, making them say: bloody.
Getting into the little hole
you open it, in the ending—
there’s no base is to it just
like houses.
In the kitchen sink drama everything is, anyways
alike, there’s everything in it, haunted,
how it really is!
VII.
Coming out like liver
slick, twist
lie up it, listing/speak, former
twisted or fall back down.
Tell them tell them tell them tell them go
away it’s going to
Battenberg Britain, an endless
is it like cake?
Spongy like Victorian terracing
made into flats—
remade into millionaire
shortbread/ sweet in the middle.
Another little soapbox drama
and inside it, ha!
Game feet.
VIII.
Short poems are so bloody
stupid, they’re
class in that this way,
democratic, read them at lunch.
Pace out foot foot foot foot foot
lefting harvested just over
easy walking—a random
walk stop probably... nvr.
So contrivances there’s
yeah that’s so right, put the piece
together launched, semifictional by,
by Du Pont TEFLON TEFLON TEFLON does stick!
Making it about turtle/Oh!
What a wonderful, unpretencing about the world
/poetry.
IX.
Not one but the any
other so much space away,
by miles counted, ploughing
oxgangs if yes if it’s swimmable.
One million two-hundred
sixty-three thousand, six-
hundred fifty-one, point!
, two furlongs.
Forty rods per furlong and
five- and one-half yard to a rod;
that’s so much tilling to, do
between now and it then.
They swim the channel you get
to know, no virgate, one oxens
one fucking ox stupid/ I’m stuck in.
XIV.
We made it to space!
And the ground is soft,
and the sun is weak,
and it’s all gently and weighted.
Have a flat in the space
like slack line/the level on
making it homey and—Oh! baby,
sun in the growing-panel.
Bloodless and bitten tong
windower, scrap puck any
lays to luddite-ing; call it
going around your “nee-nooring.”
Not a single Robbie
on the wee-woo wet space
and no illegal dusting.
James Garwood-Cole is completing a PhD at the University of Chicago and is CoEditor of Chicago Review. They live in Chicago, IL. James has previously lived in London and Brighton, UK.
Copyright © 2024 by James Garwood-Cole, all rights reserved. This text may be used and shared in accordance with the fair-use provisions of Copyright law. Archiving, redistribution, or republication of this text on other terms, in any medium, requires the notification of the journal and consent of the author
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