Frostbitten by Mark Walton

8/3/2019 Frostbitten by Mark Walton

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EPIC RITES PRESS

frostbittenpoetry by Mark Walton


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frostbitten 2011 by Mark Walton. Exterior art copyright

2011 by Pablo Vision. Interior art copyright 2011 by ElizabethA. Soroka. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be usedor reproduced in any manner whatsoever without writtenpermission except in the case of brief quotations embedded incritical articles and reviews.

First edition. Printed in Canada.

Editor: Wolfgang CarstensInterior: Wolfgang CarstensIllustrations: Elizabeth A. SorokaPhotograph by Jonathan DredgeBanner by Ego RodriguezExterior: Pablo Vision

ISBN 978-1-926860-00-8

For more information about Frostbitten (and other books andpublications from Epic Rites Press) please address: Epic RitesPress, 240 - 222 Baseline Road, Suite #206, Sherwood Park,

Alberta, T8H 1S8 and/or contact Wolfgang Carstens at

[email protected].

Epic Rites Press: because all our fingers are middle ones
mailto:[email protected]:[email protected]


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To Keith for being there all the time


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authors note

I owe a debt of gratitude to Joe Santini and James ORiordan forgetting me started, to Andi Langford Woods for encouraging meto step out of the comfort of Bristols Acoustic Night and into theworld, and to Chris Madoch for giving me the confidence to callmyself a Poet.

Id like to thank all the poetry and spoken word promoters who

create the spaces for people to perform and be heard, and to thecommunity of poets who have provided encouragement,fellowship and support.

In particular Id like to thank Uli Lenart and Jim MacSweeney atGays The Word and Jonny Dredge and Ego Rodriguez for theirassistance in promoting the initial chapbook.

Frostbitten would never have come to pass without WolfgangCarstens and Epic Rites Press and Im honoured to be in thecompany of all those who work in blood.

Finally a special thank you to E. Amato for her friendship,support, advice and invaluable assistance in editing this volume.

Mark Walton


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Contents

FROSTBITTEN

Results ................................................................................. 13

The Maze ............................................................................. 16

The Allotment ...................................................................... 19

Nine Wishes ......................................................................... 21

For A Friend ........................................................................ 23

Its A Queer Thing ............................................................... 25

Cerne Abbas ........................................................................ 27

New Routine ....................................................................... 29

Home ................................................................................... 33

Frostbitten........................................................................... 35

Plural Possessive ................................................................ 38 Not You ................................................................................ 41

Boundaries ......................................................................... 43

Old Wounds ........................................................................ 45

Dark Matter ........................................................................ 46

Soul Kitchen ........................................................................ 48

Metropolitan Hand-Stitched Blues .................................... 50
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Notme .................................................................................. 53

Pocket Garden .................................................................... 55

No More Words ................................................................... 56

Meniscus ............................................................................. 57

Kandinskys Tuba ............................................................... 59

Tomorrow ........................................................................... 60

WHAT THE HEART NEEDS TO HEAL

Memories Of A Balloon Festival ......................................... 65

Dredged .............................................................................. 67

A Warning ........................................................................... 68

Eclipsed ............................................................................... 71

Rushes ................................................................................. 73

Lets Dance ......................................................................... 74

Geezer ................................................................................. 76

Testament ........................................................................... 79

Two Strong Hands .............................................................. 80

How Men Are ...................................................................... 84

Ghosts .................................................................................. 86

We Are Monuments ............................................................. 87

Jesus and Me ....................................................................... 89
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I Dont Want Much .............................................................. 91

D.I.L.F. ................................................................................. 94

Two Thousand And Seven .................................................. 97

Sunflower Promises .......................................................... 100

The One Who ..................................................................... 102
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FROSTBITTE


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Frostbitten

When you firstcame to talk to meI was hypnotisedby your glitteringcool transparency.Drawn to examinethe cracks and

fissures twisting aroundyour opaque heart,I touched youand hoped that wewould never part.

Now its over,

and sometimesthese daysit feels as thoughI never evensaw you.Back thenmy touch feltlike it couldnt

even start to thaw you.

Thats how it was.

Frozen against youfor all those years.

Even at your warmest,deep insidethe folds of you,

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your arse clasped tight

around my wrist,your guts enfoldedround my fist,

I just reached into emptiness.

A yearning never satisfied.

Afterwards,the only thingyou ever askedwas just how deepId reached inside.

A life so small

it could be measuredin inches.

Lying beside you,numb and shudderingwith night-sweat chills,I wondered who else hadbeen inside you

during the dog day afternoonsas I workedworriedearnedto pay the bills.

Some nightsalcohol thawed the icesufficiently to free our fistsfor other uses.

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More conventional

household abuses.

Fell off my bike.Tripped on the stairs.We took our turnsto make excuses

but only

the midnight coppercared.

To those outsideour closenessappeared touching.But they

could neither seenor feelthe tearing skineach time I triedto peel myself away.

Now its over,and I lie thawing

in the sun.Parts of me stillblack and flayed.Parts of me stillachingnumb.

A moment smitten.

A lifetime frostbitten.

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Old Wounds

Beneath the black lightof a new moonits been a long nightand all the old woundsare aching.

The silence that surrounds me,

is only shattered by the hard beatof resolutions breaking.

Its been a rough weekof strong drinkand weak wills,and now fresh scabs

cover old scarsand Im a new facein all the old bars.

Im a new ghostin all the old haunts,with a head fullof all the old taunts.

And when the cuts bleedand let the dirt in,I find my old selfunder new skin,and even daybreakdont let the light in.

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Pocket Garden

Walking home at midnight.The scent of gardenstumbles over iron railings,and at each rosebushI stop and plucka single blossom,stowing it safely

against my chestas I replay the nights eventsfrom ten different angles.

Carrying the aromasof Liverpool Roadhome in my breast pocket,

as my mouth carriesthe lingering memoryof your tobacco flavoured tongue,and the ambiguitiesof our goodnight kiss.

The next morningmy shirt lies crumpled

on the bedroom floor,smelling of beerand cigarette smoke,and the petals of our pocket gardenare scattered at the foot of the bedalready fadinglike my fragmented memories.

I pull back the curtainsand face the day with certainty.

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WHAT TH HEART NEE S TO HEAL


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Rushes

Sunlighttwice reflectedripples across my ceilingas I lie on that same couchremembering sun-warmed skin,gooseflesh and the coolof your caress.

The afternoon that Ipunctured your disinterestplays out like a home movie in my head,soundless and complete withhandheld picture shake.

The bright sunlight bleaches out the imagesprojected onto the blank screen of my memory,rendering them colourless and void of detail.

We never did pull down the blinds that afternoon.Passers-by glimpsed flashes of our nakednesson their Saturday afternoon promenade.

At the time it didnt seem to matter.

Now I realisethat we were alwaysoverexposed.

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I Dont Want Much

I dont want much.

I just want to bury my headin the pits of your armsand to sniff you like glue.

I want to smell

the scent of the sweatof my arse on your beard.

I want to rememberwhat your tongue felt likelicking me there.

I want to tastemyself on your lips.

I want to wear bruisesinflicted by the thrustof your hips.

I want to be quenched

by the taste of your pisswhen Im gasping with thirst.

And if we should sleepI want to wake firstso I can lie herecounting my blessings,counting your charms,counting the delicate hairs on your arms.

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When you wake up

I want you to miss mewhilst I go to the kitchento make coffee for you.

I want to make history.

I want to take on the worldin a bare knuckle fight

feeling no fearbecause youre there at my backin a rearguard defenceagainst every attack.

In a lull in the battleIll lean my head back and laugh

and suck the bloodfrom your lips.

Ill bind up your fistswhere the knuckles are flayed.

I want to be sure that I wont be betrayed.

I guess it might seemlike Im looking for lovebut to be brutally honest,if push comes to shoveI dont want that much.

Right now Id make do with a text,or the sound of your voice on the phone.Id be happy to knowthat Im not aloneand that you want me too.

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Because I feel like

a recidivist addictwhos enjoying the habit,and I just want to bury my facein the pits of your armsand to sniff you like glue.

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Frostbitten by Mark Walton

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