{"id":10720,"date":"2019-09-09T17:25:18","date_gmt":"2019-09-09T16:25:18","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=10720"},"modified":"2019-09-26T11:36:39","modified_gmt":"2019-09-26T10:36:39","slug":"three-poems-50","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=10720","title":{"rendered":"Three Poems"},"content":{"rendered":"

Poems from<\/em> Squid Squad <\/p>\n

#25<\/h5>\n

As she walks in a widening circle, Lola Wheeler leaves
\na spiral of footprints in the snow. Bradley Ridley feeds
\nthe chickens the chestnuts. Hank Strunk drums on an
\nupturned bucket.<\/p>\n

Any metaphor is a metaphor for the idea of metaphor,
\nNatalie Chatterley mutters. Chaffinches chew at the
\nchocolate sultanas. The hum of the hand drier
\nharmonises with the hum of the electric lights.<\/p>\n

Lola Wheeler hopscotches across the tarmac. Bradley
\nRidley\u2019s beachball won\u2019t blow up. From the
\nwoodpeckers\u2019 perspective perspective means nothing,
\nHank Strunk says. <\/p>\n

The midges move like smudges. Natalie Chatterley
\nweighs out her walnuts again. Knowing knowing gets
\nus nowhere gets us nowhere, thinks Hank Strunk. Lola
\nWheeler skips ahead. <\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

#27<\/h5>\n

Nerys Harris blows through a drinking straw into a
\nbasin of bubble bath mixture. The drizzle wrinkles
\nDustin Mostyn\u2019s writing paper. Mayflies get into the
\nmaple syrup.<\/p>\n

Angus Mingus tips his chair backwards. Natalie
\nChatterley aims the spraycan at a lighted match. Hank
\nStrunk\u2019s beer sours. Audrey Chaudri unwraps the
\nclingfilm from her hands.<\/p>\n

As she wallows through the shallows, Ruth Reith
\nimagines that between technology and technique there
\nis technically no distinction.<\/p>\n

Fog fades away like forgiveness, says Bradley Ridley.
\nA grid of weeds grows through the gaps between the
\nslabs. Natalie Chatterley\u2019s bathwater spills over. Lola
\nWheeler leaves the caps off her felt-tip pens.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

#28<\/h5>\n

On a breezy morning Lola Wheeler strings her
\nhammock beneath the apple tree. Natalie Chatterley\u2019s
\nradio retunes itself. A key hangs on a string inside
\nAngus Mingus\u2019s letterbox.<\/p>\n

Angus Mingus\u2019s two wristwatches run at different
\nspeeds. Natalie Chatterley unfolds her paper hat. Our
\nwoes unwind like lemon rind, whispers Lola Wheeler to
\nherself. <\/p>\n

As the theoretical thrum of theory fades in, the
\nhypothetical hum of hypothesis dwindles away, Angus
\nMingus mutters. Lola Wheeler\u2019s pencil sharpener rusts.<\/p>\n

Angus Mingus unpeels his peach. The woodpeckers
\nsnack on the skinny yellow slugs. Natalie Chatterley
\ndims the strip lights. Air squeaks from the neck of Lola
\nWheeler\u2019s balloon.<\/p>\n

<\/p>\n

#30<\/h5>\n

Bradley Ridley falls asleep reading, and wakes with
\nnewsprint on his face. Natalie Chatterley patches the
\npatches on her denims. Ruth Reith walks backwards
\ninto the untouched snow.<\/p>\n

Reason rots like pears, Dustin Mostyn says. A balloon
\nfloats over the cactus patch. The clouds, says Natalie
\nChatterley, come like an unbudgeable kind of boredom.<\/p>\n

We create a vernacular particular to whatever mustn\u2019t
\nbe unsaid, says Ruth Reith. Dustin Mostyn fabricates a
\nrubric for the fabrication of rubric.<\/p>\n

Bradley Ridley mouths along to the radio adverts. The
\nblue crows croon their crotchety song. Ruth Reith flips
\nanother coin. Natalie Chatterley cycles out into the
\nresolute rain. <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Poems from Squid Squad #25 As she walks in a widening circle, Lola Wheeler leaves a spiral of footprints in the snow. Bradley Ridley feeds the chickens the chestnuts. Hank Strunk drums on an upturned bucket. Any metaphor is a metaphor for the idea of metaphor, Natalie Chatterley mutters. Chaffinches chew at the chocolate sultanas. […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":326,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false,"jetpack_publicize_message":"","jetpack_is_tweetstorm":false,"jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":[]},"categories":[379,380],"tags":[388],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"yoast_head":"\nThree Poems - The Manchester Review<\/title>\n<meta name=\"robots\" content=\"index, follow, max-snippet:-1, max-image-preview:large, max-video-preview:-1\" \/>\n<link rel=\"canonical\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=10720\" \/>\n<link rel=\"next\" href=\"http:\/\/www.themanchesterreview.co.uk\/?p=10720&page=2\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:locale\" content=\"en_US\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:type\" content=\"article\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:title\" content=\"Three Poems - The Manchester Review\" \/>\n<meta property=\"og:description\" content=\"Poems from Squid Squad #25 As she walks in a widening circle, Lola Wheeler leaves a spiral of footprints in the snow. 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