Skip to content Skip to footer
Poem: Untitled (From Dossier Brighton Poetry)


If there could be such a love,

a dog love, dog did I love a bit

as though it yelps, impenetrably.

Love is a picture, a picture of a river

and inside the salt moves in ways that

remind me of a dream I once had

bound tight up to the eye sockets,

“I will wheel out your drug-corpse

and let us refrigerate”.

Dogs bark though after the first

single flame the logs lay stunted, love lasts.

If I were to put the concept of you in an oven

what would I resurrect? I melt in your face

Above my shoes are socks, above that,

endless throw-ups against loads and loads

and loads of fizzy abyss.


I tried this morning. I tried to taste Asia.

It’s kind of like that time I got caught jugging

China and Taiwan whilst the big hand had

melt down between ticking, period.

This morning I tasted ‘you’ at 3.30pm 

after inhaling the sky, Asia works endlessly for us.

It’s as though we asked it to keep up

a stiff firm watch over the harbour.

Clocks ticking. A song I recognise? No.

I visualise you visualising me visualising

you are doing this. What do I owe you?

No. What do I owe Asia?

The hesitancy is so much—pause.

For real interjections interrogate the time

it takes to clock out the Asian everyman

in rice. I consume. Rice.

In each particle of rice I see choices,

an expanding mass of choice and 

orchestral betrayal. 


Would I be in jeopardy were I to stand in front of a reindeer?

You lied to me Christmas, oh festive capricious day.

To prance is not to walk all gun ho into a smoky saloon

barrels all a’blazin a head of haggis the sky drips down

the wall of jeopardy onto a single reindeer renamed

Clarence singleton with the middle name jeopardy, dying. 

Of all the things I could reign, all the things I hold dear.

Could you damage me, my love? Could you damage my raw self?

But with all this, maybe we are jeopardising song or the “poem” or

hot mud slung under a milky fright screaming at Clarence like a prawn

stuck in a cigar dreamless to death picking up on the weird vibes.

This is, thus of course, as in that it should be.


As my fork lifts, lifts by chance I think

about the time we shared that omelette, by chance. 

But that orphan forklift is a scrounger,

tattooing the kidney on the void. Help. 

The unpredictable and uncharted 

element of a steel fork cutting so great against 

a windfall cans it, as if by chance I were

to see you in that spot I saw you, when I saw 

you, we would lock ears over subjective meanderings

by chance lifting the fork through heavy knots of dreaming monkey legs,

the strength of my tongue is forked to my cheek 

it is not always that good.

The chance of a kipper racing the sea

is minimal, randomly.   

Chinc Blume lives in Brighton and has published in Cleaves Journal.  

(Featured in NP 14, which you can purchase from our shop for 3 pounds including postage and delivery:

Subscribe to our Newsletter

Naked Punch © 2024. All Rights Reserved.