red spider

red spider pokes out a leg
it is time for his walk
the curtain rail breaks
and a melon segments neatly

with a sound like kerfuddle


which reminds me

why must spiders be so prescient    he wonders
                                                                            and what must it be like for centipedes


be frugal
               says red spider    remembering his spider proverbs
and    good things come to those who wait

if I could only remember where I left my web


a fly

        at last

as an orphan what the fuck am I supposed to do with that


I am making love to a melon pip
                                                     because I feel sorry for it


I thought spiders had six legs
                                                mutters red spider

something's up
                           perhaps I'm an octopus    or a leaf

it is an interesting fact that spiders don't have mandibles


red spider meets a puddle    and calls its bluff
over the surface like enamel

continuing his religious education


the sun is my diagram
                                       shouts red spider
widowing the moon    and it clouds over
like a magdalen drawing the curtains at a golgothic eclipse

so it is hard to know which way I'm facing


I am like a henge    red spider gives in finally
and a girl hangs herself on silk in the distance    snapping the curtain rail

mist occludes red spider because he is in mourning

a clock
or a place of worship is just a misty spider
spinning in a turret
                               he muses

red spider is not even that red in his moments of illusion.
he knows a two-tone spider is the greatest thinker    with as many beards as legs
and eyes in the front of his head

my master

my master is the master of the foldback of the double negative.
as thoughts go the quintessential corduroy trouser weaver
                                                                                             claiming the truro shroud.

singed with lobster thermidor and fishing stories
he is like a dog's memoir of chewing choir stalls fills with sawdust

the way he's shaggily rolling a pilates cigarette.
                                                                             my master lies full stretch
in a continuously compound noun
customising a learning curve in a foreign accent

the very essence of spyware.

tuna melt

lines his pockets with arrows in another language
he downloads from the internet
                                                    he is only interested
in the peripheral of the screen    which completes his competence
imaged tiptoeing round a swimming pool

colombus the cat behaves as an inspiration for which tuna
exhales heavily like pipe-smoke
                                                     he has begun
collecting doorframes to store in his loft space
around a memory stick    it is a new spare time hobby
                                                                                       before that tuna
potholed the cracks in pavements and skim-read cornelius agrippa
emptying magic tables to scrub in the black spaces of crosswords with ellipses

the clue

a bench is only so long as the sandwich sitting on it

is one of his catchiest phrases    it edits out
the nets around a tennis court

asking who he is to butter up the centre of his day
wilfully picking out the sellophane  


workmanship articulate as a gleaming change of tack    interests the real spit and polish merchant    he has been sculpting nationalities out of sawdust since he was old enough to tool up    and his results embrace sheen and water like a plastic paddling pool    he will always be heard in the running of a finger over the surface    burning a light memory trigger    threats to puncture the skin and really get under it become collectable as fat but in all the right places    this latest a rosary of wine beads in a sickle cradle    resembles


snow lost on a garlic clove cools profligately    my serene pout in lipstick exchanged with it    a bargain    befitting the deal    slitting deep and red beyond the flavoured surface    a falling buoyant as acupuncture    the sinking kiss

     Nathan Thompson 2006