Our Eden.

A few months ago, I was working on an art project in which I used the poetry from Ted Hughes’ ‘Birthday Letters’. Extracting the last phrases from every poem in the book, I constructed a poem of my own. 

By my ignorance of the simplest things… by their hair and the snow of your final climb. My story, over in a flash, holding in their entrails beneath it for good. Your watch, your nightgown for my trophies of your torture; beautiful america, with still time to talk.

The mystery of that hatred. A sinless child holds up its arms weeping, taking me for a post, and held up to me a traffic bollard, a bottle, me.

and all your poems, still to be found, gazes through it at me. Or


The burning woman drank it under the whirling snow, and our future back into oblivion, and your life called ‘the head evil’. Quenched in understanding, swore me to take his orphan fate…did what poetry told us to do

at your open coffin-

eden radioactive.

We were living in death.

Lay down her little wreath into empty light. Tugged out or snapped, frighting the earth and frightening us.

Unmoving and dead, temporarily somewhere, the voice of your daughter and the other stars slid into me. This things’ dead immortal doppelgänger, a fraction the mark of his disguise, had never died. Never known death.

Our marriage had failed in a soldier crypt, and think about it…

your own corpse in it…

Warn them still undergoing everything. Ignore him.

A cross of rust, the bowl screamed of hounds? That has already happened.

OUR Eden. Leaving you to him took that too. Preparing his feast of atonement into the perfect light, into your hands, sucked the oxygen out of both of us. The well did not want to be christlike, staring upwards.

and I knew it.

and I fell with him into the abyss, right wrong devoured.

You already lost the treasure. Mummy so deftly unpicked through her, and hit him – in YOUR fist – that monday.

Universe of Alpha

The book’s blood? That dried on him. Justice done, beside the corpse of their mother, vanished under the house. Who will roll her back into the sun?

In the pit of red you hid from the bone clinic whiteness…but the jewel you lost was blue.





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