Requiem for Bioluminescence
A gene to share, like wild
bird stasis for wind to engrasp,
snowy owl's lifeless body caught noose tightened.
How dreamt is what's left behind,
in super eight and feather to shed.
The trumpet denoting a funeral march,
They were given grief’s music to birds.
My murder took a long time.
Stay here, wither my miracle
as divine snow-lazarus,
a curdle on an oxide stripe.
Lighter summers will find a way forth,
to hurt, and soon beckon,
calm as sleep paused on film.
While entrenched in watch-and-wait,
love in alphabetical order:
beak contorted tender.
Here now, I speak owl,
guarded memory of my funeral
scheduled in morn with rope.
How will the flock, in memorium [on the day], cry?
Skimming the event horizon
to [break] break what bread [seed] doesn't nourish.
Wing of human misery,
Who through hibou finds no parliament,
martyr me, O sweet marry me.
Dissolute, underworked mourners,
clay that we share from Clemo's pit:
like Earth I am to be worked.
Abandon me, nature's gift, tired:
sleet drifted [rain/snow], soiled upon soil:
toil in vain respect to buy time.
Super eight in recording,
‘all I ever wanted was candles
on a birthday cake.'
Frame burn, our child alone once:
each tug upwards of lip:
how smiles devour us, O Dad.
Here now, I speak openly,
I am at the burial ground
for morning’s meeting.
And those feelings shift,
in herd impulse,
life to give back, unsparing.
The tidal pull like children:
hand to mouth, [working] class, edible slips
that we keep in tablet form to quell intrusive thought.
The car glancing an open wall,
as warm chest to the come-on-over,
Memory of what it means to breathe.
Cursed snow drop within the frame,
modesty from active sound:
Us, dead, before the sinking.
Dose orange juice for breakfast,
daily sorbet every other meal:
no fresh will or sett.
Devour [me] violence,
acts of man I undertake resigned in daemon
who brings the strip of loss as love.
Of loss as love, O brilliant plucked-naked death.
Here now I speak fox,
guarded cemetery doors
taken as closed to mourn.
If there is mercy, let
it be in the faintest form.
A Guide for Bioluminescence
Metallurgy deals with the physical world, where teaching in heaven is an impatient science.
When the child has eight postures, they demand oil lights and bird music: field recordings of nocturne, the war continuing at the latest serenade; we hope it is resolved because the yellow bees are yet to find the lake-reflected sun. The carrion is the second source of light and low light; they are not afraid to sleep when inside, so it’s nothing devoured or gained – a weeping of bones ground into ground into soil.
The most important thing is not to be afraid to sleep in an explosion. As for the state of love; [Dust Money], I want to state this for the record: Burst! Yes!
Is it important to remember each penny in the well? [And the candles]? Rather than look where there is no more bread, and see there is enough. There is no repentance in a green heart, or a want to get married. There is just a dance in the headlamps of a car.
The current situation is: climate [B / Snow] is very dirty. First night [A / Snow] has temptations and mistakes. The even eight require your focus now, Otie, email directly to our devices. Unless you hide it from your father.
Speaking of myself, I will leave the new moon as a holy place for your absent nights. I haven’t asked what this families means, otherwise it won’t take long for the leaving. TAKK, The strength and fear of the patriarch: it starts on the wall, from the beginning, but fades in abandon when our memories leech us. We work in left-handed agriculture, until the death activities commence.
You have to come mostly covered with cold protein powder twice a day; this is a scientific adaptation to science. Right, illness is my way of losing my art and gaining tradition – it's a subject of corruption.
‘I am a fox here,’ he says. ‘Read me my burial terms.’
Aaron Kent is a working class poet and publisher from Cornwall, now living in Wales. He has had several pamphlets published, and his debut collection, Angels the Size of Houses, is due out from Shearsman in July. Gillian Clarke has said his work is 'shaped by word-music' and JH Prynne has called it 'Unicorn flavoured'.