Reuben Woolley
Reuben Woolley is an English poet but has lived most of his life in Spain. He has been published in quite a few magazines such as Tears in the Fence, Lighthouse, The Interpreters House, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Proletarian Poet, And Other Poems, The Poet Shed among others. He has also been published in the anthology, The Dizziness of Freedom. He has five books to his name, the latest one being some time we are heroes with The Corrupt Press. He has a book forthcoming in 2019 with Knives Forks and Spoons Press called this hall of several tortures. He is the editor of the online magazines, I am not a silent poet and The Curly Mind.
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tell me a life tell me a story
colour
is just a life away a
skull’s story
                              the old yellow
dog moon pocked & smiling
like tomorrow i gather
horizons for time
                              let’s see
the fit the fumbling / the
dust on my shoes like anyone might
confuse a connection / the language
of my finger pointing a variation
of somebody’s truth
                                             it’s a sliding
scale / a trill on an off-beat it leaves
my raw new flesh to hold onto.i’ll
pretend we know me
                                             not flaming
in sight again there are better extremes
where i carry whales in my hand
not raining /
               / a mote may glow
in this lost
i do                   idle
as catch can.waking
was not wasted
                              & the old pimp wants
his price a life is not sufficient
daughter that’s no river
how far we cast our eyes
this isn’t venice deeper
on other clients’ beds
so charon sells tears now the aching bastard
we don’t forget a fucking john his mad master
sowing barren seed she said
lost words
meaning
               i do
& counting refusals
are caged for protection
is a weather
inside / a slight
slip in the words i use
& why she sings
                              she does
a voice a storm i know
a people / a very
forget me now i am not
here & crazy like always like square ball-
bearings & everything’s turning come throw
me down when time was solid i haven’t
space
               enough
for quietude
tell me now
a new direction
& fuck the sound of it all.i could never
write in tune i lost the key the poor
clock wind me down in dust & toothless
see the wounds would you
digs tunnels north it does this scar
their fierce direct the true
memoirs / a cruel reminder
the
               teller
left & these are not the golden
measure.oh fuck the builder the
carver of stone he forgot
his code
my old moon & half
               who cuts it here
a broken gate & let them wander these lost
holes & never were dreaming such
force the cold slice reads
                              paint
me this a wild cunt &
centre / a silent shout
i wrote about the moon & still
it’s there
cutting faces
swallowing remains
eliminating inessentials & other necessities
feel my metal
claw carving
                              do you
                              an old head.come
grow your wings / your
light escape & cut
the air
               your feathers
& my sliced wind.it is a making
in screams the bearers enter pale flesh
                                                            a ruptured
membrane unhearing & bring
the blood to simmer
a white silence sing me
your alligator teeth.all alarms
don’t justify
                              a fall
bringing no difference & what else
went missing.the wheel
was not invented
& we scratch for fire in the dirt.darker
things there are like
cold
stone landscapes.find
this written while we survive these tremors
are normal
               it’s surface breathing / for
time comes squealing.we’ll tie the knot
& reel her in.talk to me
here & i’ll slip through plates / i’ll
send out my eyes to seek
a safe manoeuvre / tell me where a body lies
               & slight a quiver
won’t make the news.notice
this is no paradise i saw your clones
& once there was
a book for all these stories / now
bring the rats to find an end
medea all over
you / how
you see so
many voices / how
you know
a further
               face
now &
call a bleeding.you
kill me again
                              listen
do you
hear the chorus
talking
               oh do you cry
out a weakness / a
bitter waste
of darker grounds
i’m not a
patient
               woman
can you feel my teeth
embedded
tshshshshshshsh
i said
elsewhere i breathe
it could have been different
& not this
               slow dust
               over
empty.let’s see
a finger                              fumbling
too tired to change
a stuttering mess.look
at my confusion i cannot
bleed sufficient i say
these crazy details don’t hear
a lonely word i breathe you
this repeat
               somewhere
i have my own name now
reassembling
another history i don’t know
& never hanging words
like plaster geese.remember
                              they are still
                              dead & quietly
                              december
Reuben Woolley is an English poet but has lived most of his life in Spain. He has been published in quite a few magazines such as Tears in the Fence, Lighthouse, The Interpreters House, Ink Sweat & Tears, The Proletarian Poet, And Other Poems, The Poet Shed among others. He has also been published in the anthology, The Dizziness of Freedom. He has five books to his name, the latest one being some time we are heroes with The Corrupt Press. He has a book forthcoming in 2019 with Knives Forks and Spoons Press called this hall of several tortures. He is the editor of the online magazines, I am not a silent poet and The Curly Mind.