by Michael Brett | Mar 10, 2011 | Poetry
He is a conjuror. His bullets are birds’ eggs. He cloaks the theatre in his magic smoke. He mesmerises people. He cuts ladies in half. Encamped, wind battered in a tent Of flesh, I carry him and his boxes as he tours. I watch his stars with nets of bad luck Trawl the...
by Michael Brett | Mar 10, 2011 | Poetry
The first pass is invisible. Its slipstream can make a rock of the head In a Turner seascape. The bird, death, wanders the domes from ear to ear, Sometimes deafening them; Sometimes making them bleed. Sometimes, it just lands. Then, its stillness amazes you. The...
by Michael Brett | Mar 10, 2011 | Poetry
Tomorrow, it will all run backwards: The steel tsunamis will froth back upwards And become solid again. The planes will be pulled out like javelins And slide backwards, swallowing their vapour trails. Tomorrow, everyone will be fine. Tomorrow, everyone who died will...
by Michael Brett | Mar 10, 2011 | Poetry
A grand piano lies upended, like a seashell, On a beach of white plaster in a school hall cave Whose roof has been torn off by the shark bite of a bomb; And all that there ever was: shot books and magazines, Like dead birds, lie in empty streets urged by street signs...
by Michael Brett | Mar 10, 2011 | Poetry
I became a Buckingham Palace guide for death. I timed my transformation to the instant (8.51) I climbed aboard a Piccadilly Line train. Look, admire death’s portraits and its corridors. Over its flowers I would rearrange the flowers of yourselves In the vases of...
