Other Poems by:

Christopher Barnes

The New Chef

Cabbage is a tinge she whacks
with the bulk-bodied chopper
we gulp down supper.

By Christopher Barnes, UK

The Nurseryman

At one I break sodabread in Leidesplein,
swallow cauliflower pakoras
in a wriggling cranny frenetic with life.

With spoils of Camellia I've plucked
wrapped in a nickel-white foil,
I'll tramp down to Velvet Canal
to meet my new-broom beau.

In gloaming we're off to a cannabis café
to coddle in the mirk,
snap-happy with The Galaxy, block by block
we'll turn slack legs to lead.

From the Amsterdam poems
By Christopher Barnes, UK

The Old Goat

Rutter's shrivelled in no time
by rag-tags, scurf.
He plots to be wrapped up
by 5 maudlin nannies.

Death hesitates
in the balance-trembling lovelock
of his moustache.
Fear inclines
to go down.

By Christopher Barnes, UK

The Other Side Of Frontiers

The case for effort's absent-minded.
4 am.  BBC pips drain off
plucky at mini roulette
cold shoulders to daylight.

Behind pizza boxes
a gamester's stake-out
Saddler scores Richmond 50
into the penny-pig.
In polystyrene cups
loot squandered on a flea flaptrack.

A gun-toting flag-waver,
a fail-safe drill
their Liquidator checks the dromos
with a bonesetter's touch.

From the Spooks poems
By Christopher Barnes, UK

The Palaeolithics

They've been dreaming again.
Animals of the hunt
bled onto the dried-skin walls,
cold-breathed caves.

First impression, finger marks.
Liquification, ores becoming brittle.

Fixity for a moment in time,
an eon of small buffets, grit.

These fierce beasts charge their wool
spiking across scapes of overlap,

where the bogeyman waits
in the darkest part of dark.

In Altamira the Hall of Bulls
shivers on the peripheral

self-sealing circle of night -
hairy, goosebumped,

individual as a tattoo.

By Christopher Barnes, UK

The Pan Scrub Game

From thickset specky windows
he eye-balls
the tough job warp and weft
of the launchpad
as it floats itself
for the copter's sea-strip.

Then the kitchen's remodelled
Tony bumps the eggbeater
off its base
buoying the bobbish sponge-backed slab,
hosing it into the bowl
to plane a cruddy pan.

In a fumbling presto
it slips into quick-sight
blades limiting a circle,
a cascade lighting on horizon.

Landing's right as a trivet.

By Christopher Barnes, UK

The Minute

I carried the flowers to her bloody grave,
flinched when you found the streak of guts,
plummeted when you asked the awful questions.

We were a couple that day, two grown men,
lovers of years standing,
sobbing into the squish of cars.

Today, behind the cupboard door
her leash and collar hang.

By Christopher Barnes, UK

The Mounted Patrol

From that moment
whole day was saddled horses.

In bits and reins
they cracked
clods up the cycleway,
arched into the magnifying light.
of the flyover
clip-clop clip-clop in ratio to unicorns.

Brindled fetlocks and withers.
The sun tint was embellishing
from a timeless deep space
and where the constabulary helmets
teetered and swayed
they were all ears and eyes.
I almost wished them knights,
measured in hands
with airborne plumes of titan-red
contrary with make-believe
Parma violet capes.

a blackbird cheeped notey

By Christopher Barnes, UK
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