Father, I had a dream, you dug
eight holes, added children
and funeral lamps for Bird
music. A narration lasted
an orchestral score through
an award season. Changes
in nature were determined
by developers of air
conditioning systems: the dead
were trapped in the snow.
We had no choice but to
I’ve always known the Snow Lazarus’
sanctum as its sadness: light sources
in despair and speed. ‘Do not be afraid
to sleep, it’s necessary if you are to
explode off the scene.’ Dad,
if I have to stay [principles of love;
silver dust] – I will do so
in love with memory rather than
The owl! A noose! January!
How do we remember what we need
[right now]? Back on stage,
and you haven’t offered me a corpse,
just a reminder that human pain
is a mouldy blue even when we miss aching,
and get married. You’ll make sure
it doesn’t work. Reprise, Reprise,
Bird-song: how the tempo works:
I gave your gift to nature: storm [rain /
snow], a convergence of forecast: try
to find me in an avalanche. The first eight
metres sometimes need a candle;
a Birthday Cake in draft form,
a love you swept under my mother’s
carpet. If you don’t smile,
Dad, I’ll be honest now,
I’ll be in the cemetery, I’ll see you
tomorrow. And the haunting
is different in this ground:
life flows, can not stand.
Parenting is a justification
of the dream’s situation,
eight holes / no cake / a dampness.
I propose we start waking by killing
That should drown before
we leave the ship. Concentrated
cyanide for breakfast,
and lobotomies twice a day;
there is no harmony in conspiracy
Father. The end of your disease
is a loss of love of art with a loss
of love of exposure to corruption.
I’m a fox here. Let me know
the conditions when the time
is right for re-emergence.
Aaron Kent is a working class poet from Cornwall now in Wales, where he runs the indie publishing press Broken Sleep Books. He has written several pamphlets, and his debut collection is forthcoming in 2021 from Shearsman. JH Prynne called his poetry ‘unicorn flavoured’, and Gillian Clarke has called it ‘word-music’.