Sunday, July 14, 2013

Pitch

Pitch Mandible Stone paperbackIn response to absolutely no customer demand whatsoever I have decided to take the commercially unviable step of republishing my poetry collection – Pitch Mandible Stone (previously only available on Kindle) – as a bona fide, 100% real, printed and bound book that you, my prospective customers, can purchase via Amazon from almost anywhere in the world, safe in the knowledge that your hard earned money won’t see hide nor hair of a UK tax man whilst your eyes gorge themselves silly on my gloriously glib alliteration and marvellous metaphor-making.

Pitch Mandible Stone is available at the stonkingly reasonable (but possibly optimistic) price of £5.99 from Amazon.co.uk and at a comparable price dependent on exchange rates, etc, from other Amazonian outlets. Just click on the image above to facilitate your purchase.

If that doesn’t sell it to you enough, here’s another free poem from the collection. Enjoy. Or rather, enjoy and then purchase the book and then enjoy some more.


The Final Frontier

Very close to it now
And I cannot remember my mother’s arms.

The soft lake of her tongue escapes me.
My hands are dissembled roots

Shot through with silent films of water
That nothing touches.

This is the confirmation
And the countdown

To sleep.
In benign synchronicity

The jettison is a Belial of gentleness;
The lift-off a merciful Herod

Relocating the first born.
I am grateful for I am too weak for the stars,

For the meteors:
I sleep dependent on the breath of their dicey charities.

Gravity sucks the blue earth
Away from my feet

And begins the inhalation spaceward.
The dramas shrink to a hoarse molecule,

The Universe to a straw.
I propel through it absolved

Like a freight of grim electrics –
My obedient organs dissolving like cane.

In sodden degrees
I leave the winsomeness of blood and synopsis behind me.

I move on
And become beautiful and shoddy like a gas.

Hence I shall not want.
I shall have no kinship with green pastures.

Beyond them, there shall I lie.
In the morning I will sing to myself a new song –

My rod and my staff fainting like gauges to zero;
My burnt out rockets falling to a carboniferous atmosphere.

The airlock shushes open and it is finished.
There is to be no more of hope and I am relieved:

My heart is uncircled and through the gates of Babylon.



10 comments:

Gorilla Bananas said...

Rod and staff fainting, burnt out rockets, uncircumcised heart. What does it all mean?

Steve said...

Gorilla Bananas: indeed. Is it Death with a capital D? Or the small Shakespearian metaphorical "death"?

Nota Bene said...

Don't worry about lack of demand (apart from wanting to be paid for your efforts...even JK Rowling sold only 1500 copies of her new novel penned under the name of Robert Galbraith until she was 'unmasked' by the Sunday Times...I expect your real name is Wordsworth...

Steve said...

Nota Bene: Dan Brown, actually.

Marginalia said...

How's the new job going?

Steve said...

Marginalia: so, I can't decide if you think (a) I'm suicidal or (b) I shouldn't give up my day job.

The bike shed said...

Complete lack of demand seems good reason to push on to me.

Remember my art tutor saying he hadn't sold a painting in months so he was going to double his prices!

Steve said...

The bike shed: sounds a wise if not necessarily lucrative philosophy!

Colin A said...

I did comment before but it hasn't appeared! I was wondering why your book is already being sold more cheaply at The Book Depository and invise-canada. (According to Amazon)

Steve said...

Colin: I suspect they offer the book more cheaply but then ask for more in P&P.