Bluebottle is the literature, arts and performance collective I run with Rosi Leonard, Justin Murphy. This project is called The Poem Line, in which a poem is composed for the caller live during a telephone conversation. These are the poems written on the first Poem Line evening.

 

[Title Lost] [For Neasa]

 

Shut ordinariness out!

And condescension, baby.

Don’t let your feet touch your nervousness

Because you are a fragrant party,

and your glory is your own medicine.

 

For Ruth [Called in by Neasa]

 

Return to your visible force transformed

to unphasability from any tragic absurdities.

Because after all,

you can murder embarrassment.

And you won’t know when comfort

is about to swoop in

before it happens.

Perhaps you will feel our short buildings,

those which barely graze sky,

whisper that they miss you when you’re not weaving through.

Or a wheelbarrow of luxury might ripen your circumstances.

But for now,

seek to drink the darling gestures

of priests and priestesses of friendship.

 

Touch Glory [For Ali]

 

Saviours might refuse sustenance,

but you can telegram yourself your own triumph.

Some days to speak might feel like soap in your teeth

but when you can feel music free your muscles

and allow your thoughts their own party

you may see the axe-blue fruits

which emerge from the shy secrets

of what already surrounds us.

 

Tedious Cycle [For Kerry]

 

Reptiles might tell you

that they always come home from Communist Church

hungry as hell.

And capitalism might be oily,

but it’s floral-scented

and has too many absorption channels

to lack sustenance.

Can’t we bleed onto sticks for free?

 

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