Sam Smithson

The Split

One million moths infest our old place,
digest our left behind whatnots
and piss stained mattress, they’re
taking the walls back to bare brick,
their busy wings beating
against each other,
one million percussionists.
Their larva, cocooned and clustered, dream
of us smoking and being sanctioned by
our young professional German neighbours.
One million moth minds,
their visions facsimiles of our memories.
One million moth bodies fluttering at your thighs,
mesmerized by a bright light.
Come now, take half a million moths as lovers,
protect their hearts in a cedar chest.
Show them your curtains, linen, and peg loom rug.
I will console with the rest
in the only pub that will let us in.

Either go or stop

Unflex a muscle under a moon, or
imitate the gait of an adult
with a secret in their pocket.

Point me to the fence post with no gate,
the postman with no post,
the ghost.

Hisses of tracer rounds and
swishes in grass fields.
The inches a lost child will grow.

A closed library,
a redressed body,
yards of unsaleable granite worktops.

A turn, a turn, a turn, a turn,
some movement to relearn.
A slip. A rope burn.

The dog playing dead.
The house after the wake.
Quick, to the moss covered boundary stone.

Sam Smithson has been published in Allegro Poetry. He also write plays. Two of them, A Good Time Was Had by All and Taking a Love Pill at the End of the World, whichhave been performed.