Selected poetry from upcoming collection, The Lamb Pit, by Steven Fowler

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{Lilith}

the first of the five jew sisters
pit of shame that sings from
the speaking of your family name

salvation ceased for me in that
chateau near albi
pest of anteochus epiphanes
the sweaty official was handsome

the church of aviation is built on
the blood of martyrs
but our boy must grow in my image
I forbid his circumcision

while you present to me shirtless
naked to the knee
first the scourge
the ferula cut your skin
nothing from you

How German is it? nothing that can be thought
in a scant passageway

the song of the drowsy shite
‘gentle regrets;’
your hips give warmth denied
by the cow and ass

Steven Fowler is a writer from London, Britain (UK). He may be reached at steven@sjfowlerpoetry.com.

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{Film}

blind knows its own belly.
It is you. In your bikini.
upon a kitchenette in Spain
the grammar is too familiar
your special word with god.
erased & battered levied
surgically down the sound
of your groaning,
your gooning, an undreamt
reprisal.
You have proven to me I am old
& it is time to mend

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{Biscuit}

little boys of lechery – poetry
Vaseline. Vaseline!
in the debuts and peckers of the Island,
o Island
forgive my perambulations
my rudeness
the very frenzy of bending and the sounds of liver

at last no rush
for all that wealth
is bound to be the result of something filthy
though mice and frogs
seems to lack persistence,
don’t they just fire something in the mind?
when thinking of those who never had their day

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{Pub}

I carry a black flag
from public house to public house
warmly received
the mastman helm detects a spot upon the lung
diagnosis:
fat in the vein
I have strength enough to come calm and tall into angioplasty
for I am living clean
in a small, secluded harbour
& here I have learned it is not warmth that repeats itself
nor can it be preserved
fleeting, stock in coal,
in animal sedge
rather cracks in seed listen to the frost burns
a swarm of red bees
and remind those who suggest we are to forgive
or forget
those are not imagined shapes
and you need not cease breath
to be dead

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{Liverpool}

on
drink we pen a mawkish essay of false renown
there is a time for hunting & for turning black
no ports
boats no port
rest on boats docked at land no ports
all the way from liverpool
came the sheedy
surviving the german war
he sent his body to his mother in law
mixed with rubble and ash
his bones cement the northern wall