Ruby: Charlie Baylis

November 20, 2017

 

 

 

Charlie Baylis is from Nottingham, England. He is the poetry editor of Review 31. He has published two pamphlets Elizabeth (Agave Press) and hilda doolittle´s carl jung t-shirt (Erbacce), a poem of his is featured in the ‘best new British and Irish poets 2017’ (Eyewear Press). He spends his spare time completely adrift of reality.

 

 

 

 

 

Find out more about Charlie here: http://www.charliebaylis.com/ or here: http://theimportanceofbeingaloof.tumblr.com/.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Kev Byrne.

 

ruby 

 

ruby paints my room rebecca red             flicks
raindrops from her lashes             undresses the language
of her tongue             hoarfrost and diphthong

angelic simulacrum             shooting stars 
shoot down the chute of her neck             the waterfalls we believed were waterfalls
were ruby's wet back from the ocean             were ruby's wet eyes 

from the ocean             
examine the movies in ruby's lip gloss             when we kiss
i can't stop thinking how blue the sky is

 

 


Friday night on Babestation

 

Every Friday night on Babestation a French botanist 
strolls into my mind and drops her dress in the middle of an allegory
thereby ruining the allegory.
Sometimes it's easier to think of lemons
when you are not thinking of lemons, bottle tops are often just as yellow
as the flowers in a petrol station.

 

I pour my eyes down the sink
admiring the blues as they burst.

 

The static on the channel seems to whisper
the lines of perfect poems
or memories painted backwards
onto cave walls
that flicker like lightning on the strange surfaces on which the clouds pose.

 

The French botanist returns to her body
I change the channel.
Two men in suits are discussing tennis.

 

 

 


soft bodies

 

The airport was silent
outside the menace and glare of 
concrete clouds.

The same morning a suicide bomber
exploded, shattering her soft body into a million pieces,
she left an eyelash.

We sat waiting for the same plane, Matilda 
flowered in your womb
the moment I gave you
a bag of blood oranges, the jealous moons of the Bahamas,
you wrote of a girl with the purple fear.

You said in every broken dream
there is a pool of stagnant water

you said after the storm
sharks would wash up in our stomachs.

You never looked at the time
it was over.

 

 

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