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Not Love: Michael Kindellan

Not Love
Michael Kindellan

£5.00, 48pp, ISBN 978-1-903488-69-0

Author Biography

Michael Kindellan's poems have appeared in Quid,Crater, Chicago Review and elsewhere. He is the author of Word is Born with Reitha Pattison (Arehouse 2006) and Charles Baudelaire (Bad Press 2005). Not love is his third chapman book.

More about Michael Kindellan»


from Not love:

Unfree heart on the dotted line I dote on your paralytic
accord to claim that boxes oneself up into an insist.
Loftily, the organ sings (its crescendo manned by polyps):

O single coursing crimson thread identical to lands, I
as wacky plans depart the true supply of well-worn fault
and insert back into it the map of a life that I someday will

get up and out of (this notion is a lonely hubbub). Where
there's water there's a skin you look well in the shadow
of a full-sized and pulsing stream, whaling it. The aspect

rationalises a natural tan hanging over the mouth in a picture
of a plain skirt just gagging for some greater magnitude
like geography to come and make a mountain of her perfect

calm subsiding as the night falls petrified into its own,
loving itself. Imagine our planet lurid with not possibly
wide surfaces ungrounded, sort of like a flipped out

lair, an earth that glances back so that as the sun, full-on,
goads her to pat its welcome better pair the world to
trills puts the terrier at them, we say, where lovers lie

(be foxes there or badgers). Between white bodies and sky
this amplitude precisely is beside valleys still bearing
down on stone, tussles taking off that centre, their

eyes full of fur, only cut ecliptic. How many earths have
you ever had to clean the surfaces of with a tongue, with a breath
of tassels of fresh wind that nips around this morion leaf,

an embrace it's taken for, offered the dowel it likes to
lighten the load fastened closed round two round breasts
on a circle plate. To sumptuous acclaim a sudden peal masses

on the burst and we're buds pointing at you five different
ways like seasons, the sun beating hastily rips out drawback,
its ripeness tried to hitch. No spangle rags in the harding.

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