Spring in london - Steve Willey

Come in from a warmth my small gazelle drill
Scaffolding green of caltrop pierce-hoof
For it is now midday and I'm in need of pigeons
Canted-builder, undead-mesh, brackened-eyes
Closets and kisses fold you up something proper
No today is not the day for something proper
Extinguish curls -

And when I was a poacher the room was pink
In summer O' microwaves where the birds burst
And the shields turn in face to slit faces the pretty
Polices, and Luke

I garnered up the violence for you, I placed it in this bird
Will you hold it? Yet still, while you face it, will you come
In from my mouth, for it is now past midday, and I'm in need
Of poems -

Fuck off to find a fallow field mouse gangrene and empty
For he is out in the lower gut of my tiny Luke bird,
Shitting out green -

And I heard you ill the city - so are you my slow gazelle,
Or worse - are you my drill-field. And am I the closet terrorist
When even your kisses fear me -

Where even the birds sought my door to die?