Colin Herd

COLIN HERD

inspired by my babysitter’s
boyfriend, i’m studying the paintings
of Lorser Feitelson. i have had a monstrous
week and a half. a week and a half (and a half) of
large spilling slices. they suck me in to dream
like crazy of L.A.

as though i were suffering from a slipped
disk, i’m cultivating inner tranquility and
bright, chromatic abstraction. i’m swelling,
gently undulating, changing in thickness as i sway.
the first i heard of someone behind me was a tic-tac
crunched by an incisor. i know that sound. i know that
smell. i know a curtain drppn n bg clsng zp. the trouble

starts because what makes me tick, also makes me talk,
and therein lies the rub (i wish).
i am an atomiser
from which you can squeeze
a thin spray of hope (i hope):
::……………………………
………….     ………………
……….    ……..   ..   ……
..  …         …..      ..   . ..

the middle of the room is hardly
recognizable. i still have to panic
when i want something. still mushy
where it matters, you could say,
still lonesome after all these years. c
reamy silences like sssshhhh
(in a pram) but not right now
asleep at all, or having strange
dreams.

we’ll have to go
upstairs calmly, from where

i promise we’ll hear just as well.
you could hug me. because i am
an atomiser from which:
……… ……… ……………  ….
…………………….         . . . .
….. …     ……….     .. ……..
…. …. ……………….      …. .
… … … … …                   ….
the furniture is gasping but
ignore it, it only thinks it can
pass judgment, forgets we
already own at least ten percent
of its gurgling, aching sorryful
bulk i bet.  just a bunch of values
that we can refuse (pander instead
to our whims if it suits us)
so bright so bright they rot
(as i trip up on a confusing
linebreak) so bright they rot
ate longer than expected on
the hot rod, too soft, (ee), morose.

i am an atomiser from which
you can hug a thin spray of hope
i hope …………………………………
………….       …………..     ………..

i collect the autographs
of famous redheads. was d.h. lawrence
a redhead? was henri matisse? intrigue.

in the hope that they are shared,
i gargle my dreams so loud it’s obscene,

and you humour me, a couple of
licks short of sensitivity and kindness.

ken kesey? swinburne? silliman? getty iii?
blake? i got jane asher already and am holding
out for will clark. i reckon my hobby came from
somewhere but i can’t for the life of me
think where, nor why. irresolution+twitchiness.

i know your love is cap-
sized, louche & side
ways on your head,
gaudy, red, obscene,
its rim dramatically tilting,
lop-sided, sweat-stained,
old. at

the same time, i know
my personality is like
a kilt. heavy, scratchy &
tartan. when you reel, it
feels like you’re shrugging
me off to the tune of my
fiddle. i flap about you.

Colin Herd lives in Edinburgh, where he co-edits anything anymore anywhere and reviews fiction for 3:AM magazine, poetry in the blog of Chroma Journal and exhibitions for Aesthetica.  Recent poems have appeared in 3:AM, Gutter, Pop Serial, Shampoo and Velvet Mafia.  colin-herd.com