Iain Britton


               the horned moon


the night’s performers

the talkback is on

has been given the thumbs up

               and lovers

       who often miss practices



gaps widen

              intimacy is a line

       with unpredictable trends

  a silhouette fits into my skin

                flashes weakly

amongst the town’s tired neon

            I’m not interested

              in daily regimes

                                I don’t react to hunger pangs

emaciated saints loitering in streets

or the granulated invasiveness

                                        of the river

        footpaths undulate and locals

        Indian-file the secrecy of journeys

                and backtrack to homes

                        where stars

                      hang in transit


the river

        stirs like a thick green muscle

            against trees

                the legs of bridges

I check labels

          dosages /     the pink opiate

dripping from a spoon


from my apartment

          my best friend

            transforms himself

into a fear-factor practitioner
tempting outside influences
to accompany him
for the ride

I resist inducements

        of yes I can / no I can’t

he heaps praise on

my initiative

to shut windows gum up gaps seal peepholes

        whilst enduring this pantomime

            of living



the maimed now healed


my labyrinth every night

          they talk in muffled voices

                      reassemble in profusion

        which tells me

          it’s prudent now

to alter my agenda



        time ticks        across great white spaces

                        and a park

snatches fried bits from nocturnal diners

                of unspoken reflections at my mouth

I take your hand to satisfy my habit

        the neon calligraphy

                    flashes for Garners for Beggs on Broadway

the wind         pipes in the future

and an arrow in the brown eye of the haberdasher

suggests more than trespassing


you smile

                    and amuse yourself

this is where boy kisses girl

                                  girl kisses poppies

                                        dropped from the sun

you enter the long room of your studio

to speak to a microphone

to an audience beyond light bulbs and phosphorescent definitions

you enter the property of propaganda
the mental-made pamphlets
the black ‘n white posters
the mutilated architects of ‘once were warriors’

I take your hand                 (presuming)

it’ll make a difference

it’ll join opposing forces

put icing on the cake we’re about to eat

(presuming)                 it’ll help us to survive

the brief season of one man

taking profits from many women


time ticks                 and the park pumps up its chest

lies in its fragrance

never closes         never opens

        the fountain swells the jowls of its lion

        a gargoyle just spits

each night                 you float in the lagoon

        your mouth chewing at the moon

                Ophelia’s holes

                              are eyes for the stars

                                          your red hair knotted amongst weeds

                                        your face

                                    worth salivating for …


like an anachronism

        wanting the world to migrate

I prepare our lives simultaneously

                        the junk mail tells it all

Iain Britton has recently published collections with Oystercatcher Press, Kilmog Press, The Red Ceilings Press, and Argotist Ebooks as well as a collection with Lapwing Publications which came out in June.

He also published a pamphlet from Like This Press and a forthcoming collection in 2013 with Department Press. Find out more at his blog.