Poetry from Ross Bryant

Here the windows open onto sky’s grazing,
Tumbling through the landscapes with ultraviolet features
And upturned eyeballs.
Brushing the chipped shoulders of 7-day lotharios,
Barking at houses and uniting in a chorus of frayed knots.
The rosy squeals of the pig pen were never far away,
Chin deep in soapy water and mimicking the superstars of daytime television.
Showers screaming.
Can we seek the relief of 2:00am blackouts?
The wilderness in two miles of personalised number plates?
I left my head treading cathedral yards,
Pondering the value of Exe.
I never liked how broad those shoulders could be.
Another flock torn into motorway stations.
Waxing gibbous and the occasional telegraph pole
Bristling with prickled declarations,
‘Untangle all the lanes and burn the views’
Until then we’ll peruse the wristwatches and altered states of appearance,
Asking only questions, but were we ever still alive?
20/09/2020 Exeter, Devon

.who in the stops of 12-19 Fore St.
Shrugged off the silvery inevitable
And the bitterness
Of the glitter box granite.
Pressed with a deadpan disdain for modern life
Is this the greatest thing you’ve (n)ever scene?
(Pylon to B4) A tension within the gambit,
Shaving a min. or two from the GRN root
Until ‘The End’
Preserved itself a little differently.
Over phished clouds pass like cattle,
Brewing car stock for shovel headed storeys
And increasing the chances of reign fall.
OR in constant use.
Please advise.

(…) blend ‘Blue no.5’ with screwdrivers,
It will crawl through the yards, the postcards, and heels.
Plugging holes in the carpets with its broken jawed azure,
Pondering cord progressions,
The cut ’n’ paste never (may contain salt).
From its amber lit pockets were the kwik tongues of hermits
Stitched to the din of its hot tin lining. ON SALE@public addresses.
‘Was it time to feel electric?’ – whoeveryouare
It processed the rhythms of future folklore,
Screwed another ribbon into the barking purple.
Seldomly bobbing over radio waves
And for Displaying Purposes Only.
Beyond were the fruits of circa ‘43
Ripening in the synonym: streets,
Temporarily built to last
With bottled capped receptions at the
PAYE.SLOT.CASH. Trespassers will be prosecuted.
W/duvets in the whistle stoop,
Showers in the bistros,
Tyre tracks up the backs of lonely harts,
The wrong side of a set of showroom curtains.
Trespassers will be prosecuted
So stockpile you’re remaining darlings
//bad homburgs remain adjacent
Dazzlingly nettle skinned and wandering.
Were you just as scared as I was?

One thought on “Poetry from Ross Bryant

  1. Good work Ross.
    Original, unique, some memorable phrasing.
    I’m glad you shared it with us.

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