The Crescents
Sonnet I
of prayers and CMYK throughout the day
And noir: It is, I’m afraid, what’s happening
She’s flying through your neighbourhood.
Where concrete, bleeds
And courses through the streets in vein
I will turn the lights off.
With the loose grip and the last drip.
4.16am. she’s yours, she belongs to you.
still he wears his hips
And Idle, eyes don’t feel like jumping
Where tongues attack, the frog’s back
But there is no assisting this
in their territory, the pulse of the shrub, so tedious
the inquest into the death was cancelled on a technicality.
Sonnet II
We will have to wait until it has been formed.
Most of the space remained unfilled
And our space is steadily erasing
With fresh salt in the breeze,
a gust beneath the broadsheet.
Deep down the rabbit’s hole
trees suck the life out of this place,
And old passages recite themselves
With her back to the bricks.
Andrew loves Allanah.
But there is no assisting this
it is getting to know itself.
Sometimes I think I should just go out and find that, that did this to him and
Sonnet III
I Feed Everybody
These streets-in-the-sky
Need painting pink and a lot of pot-pourrit
I want to see a flock of sheep grazing on Birley Fields
Tie-dye sheep to show initiative
To the freak-show: mad-heads, gunslingers, ice-cold-emcees and bell-ringers
At the time of writing
streets are blocked and new streets are made
The spaces unused and the sense of possibility
Where the sewn-up city is so absent
but filthy, quiet gloves wrench ownership
and the noise of height goes flat
so we drain-tea-and-over-stew
And rest in our communal areas
Charles Fyfe Williams