Even when Death inhabits a poem, he does not own it. He is a squatter. In fact, Death owns nothing. – Todd Moore
Midnight’s Hymn Good night my love. Good night, my love and truth. I must give you up, for the hours to pass. For if awake I stay, no sun will rise. Our love has stopped all clocks. I must give Continue reading Midnight’s Hymn by Christopher Hopkins
A summer blessing A cotton hill looking for a home. Drifting to the blessing, paper thin. In a breath, the warmth, feathered out, as the dandelion seeds on a cow’s tongue. And as quick as the sun’s mask came, the Continue reading A summer blessing by Christopher Hopkins
I am the thief I write my hatred down, my love in words which do not say love, or say hate. I hind behind both, wave my flag, call for attention to things nagging, like truth in pools of black Continue reading I am the thief by Christopher Hopkins
The old know and the young suspect The wind changed and blunted the song with its sally and rush. We see the faces left, mouthing nothings. A tune fades in for a beat on a lull in the wind, but Continue reading The old know and the young suspect by Christopher Hopkins
Daydreaming in sleep Coal dust settles on the evening. On the little town and its joins between others. The hill roads and backyards quieten, less the whistling for a dog that doesn’t come. And the night grows with the night Continue reading Daydreaming in sleep by Christopher Hopkins
20,000 yard stare My appearance is now that of a bloated corpse, found after two weeks in the water. An expired lust wrapped in skin. Copy paper white, cellophane thin. My eye lids are purple and dry, lips like chilli Continue reading 20,000 yard stare by Christopher Hopkins
the death of a summer flower carcass of the honeysuckle across the lawn the scented tears will be lift from their cheeks in the path of the coming sun the birds and trees still dazed from elbow and fist of Continue reading The Death of a summer flower by Christopher Hopkins
Take your journeys home Bonfire skies light up in shutter speed. The thunder claps roll away, away, and I can’t tell if the sound is heaven or the infrasound of traffic, dual bound. Away, away. A slowing S.O.S. of rain Continue reading Take your journeys home by Christopher Hopkins
The darkness at the bottom of the glass Don’t think it switches on, with another Friday night drink. The animals sinking jars to stop a rising disaffection. Then a countdown of the walk home. The urgency in horror. Don’t think Continue reading The darkness at the bottom of the glass by Christopher Hopkins
Touching off goodbyes Logic in burning houses. The thinking behind petrol and match. The spark and flame, the idea to the hunt. Street high stars, make the shape of a hippo, on the neighbouring valley wall. The distance between us. Continue reading Touching off goodbyes by Christopher Hopkins