Ruby: Charlie Baylis
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.
Photo by Kev Byrne.
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 i 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.
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.