blackmail press 37
Fred Buijn
New Zealand

Mere & Child - Penny Howard
In the Absence of Words               

You arrive
but I suspect
you never left.

You’re a kind of
chain-smoking Mona Lisa,
leaning against my bedroom door.

My ears bend
to a voice,
as real,
as this shrill cicada summer,
at the edge of hearing.

But your smile
let’s me know,
it’s 3.17 pm,
and I’m drunk (again).
Locked between,
a room,
and a bottle,
and your skin-tight,

Sunday Roast                                  

Last Tuesday,
whilst up to my elbows
in blood and feathers.
Having skewered
old Romeo,
my cocksure bantam,
And left him,
and the stench,
to drain.
I thought of you.

I thought,
I must invite you over,
I mean,
it’s gut wrenching,
and all Jane’s stuff’s still here.
Her blue Fiji blouse,
and the tickets,
and it just feels like
this whole situation
has been left

tomorrow’s Sunday.
I’m having a roast.
Join me,
I promise you
a warm