Sunday, January 10, 2016

Stuart Buck- Three Poems

Stuart Buck is a poet and writer living in North Wales with his wife and two children. His poetry and prose have been widely published in journals such asThe Stare's Nest, Cultured Vultures, Deadsnakes, The Bitchin' Kitsch, Erbacce Journal, The Seventh Quarry, Walking is Still Honest, Yellow Chair Review, The Sunflower Collective and Under the Fable. He has been a featured poet in both FIVE magazine and poetrykit. When he is not writing or reading, he enjoys juggling, cooking and ambient music. More of his work can be found @


a week ago
when the piercing clarity of the moon sang
graphite harmonies, sweeping across the silent hills
before we discovered that tiny, blotted bundle
 of eternity in the field behind your house
before the piercing violence of your scream
split the charcoal              night
as you peeled back the hessian shroud
revealing a tiny face
 with eyes dreaming of forever.


the butterflies suffered the most during those locust years spent
in the hinterland of rural adolescence with those teasles and tantrums
before sarah kennedy caught me watching her undress
and spread her legs when she saw me looking and
those mythical tales of masturbation, of a different world
full of semen painted scenery and soft wet reflections
of the one inhabited by my finicking mother prying and peering
while my friend and i removing the wings of butterflies with wasp factory precision
that brief, romantic dalliance with sensual death
during which i used the calculator on my plastic ruler
to work out how many seconds i had left to live
before the sweet suffocation of mortality took me
to where the bees were black as coal

six billion five hundred and seventy million


Where the grass is greenest
Cotton candy kissed
dandelions predict everything that can be
                And the milk eyed trout                spark solar flares
We lay in the cool Halcyon touch
                              of youth
Before the storm brought the ineffable drip of decay
And as our sticky palms pressed
Our trembling lips met for the first time
And whole galaxies were born as we died in the fire.

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