Bone Orchard Poetry: Reuben Woolley

Bone Orchard Poetry: Reuben Woolley: echometry there is distance between me and me I can't see my shadow the echo stares back silent unblinking I don't measure...

Bone Orchard Poetry: Reuben Woolley

Bone Orchard Poetry: Reuben Woolley: two no more straitjackets   my head is overloaded and i can’t understand what they say it’s all tripos and trappers that...

places - collaboration with Sonja Benskin Mesher

theovores - another collaboration with Sonja Beskin Mesher

Control - another collaboration with Sonja Benskin Mesher

Nine collaborations with Sonja Benskin Mesher http://thescreechowl.com/the-apple-tree.html

We are very lucky to have, on The Screech Owl, Sonja Benskin Mesher's & Reuben Woolley's collaboration.
See more at:
http://thescreechowl.com/the-apple-tree.html

Four poems published by Bone Orchard Poetry

http://boneorchardpoetry.blogspot.com/2014/03/reuben-woolley.html?spref=fb

investment (A collaboration of mine with Sonja Benskin Mesher)

A collaboration with Sonja Benskin Mesher for the exhibition The Book of the Dead, Wales

AUTOEROTIC ELEGIES: Whistling shade. A link to David McLean's blog.

AUTOEROTIC ELEGIES: Whistling shade

You really should visit David McLean's blog. Some amazing poetry.

regeneration sutra (video)

That Boy

That boy,
remember.
Not quite right - face
a little flatter, walk
a little odder, lips
a little wetter.

He walks around
the moving obstacles
on their way to work 
or class. That boy,
remember.
I can't
see him.

Being Ordinary

                                                                                     i.m. Harvey Sacks

Oh you've got someone to talk to all right,
parents, brother, sister, cousins and wife,
but you know what they'd say:
Oh John, you're so funny.
Oh. My God. Don't say things like that.
Oh grow a pair, will you?

And you're not going to talk to the guy in the pub
who's complaining about his kids and their cats
and the state of this nation. And the experts
are expensive and what would you say?
They'd think you were crazy and lock you away.

So you don't
talk.
So you fly.
Fly far away,
dying to be normal,
a direct journey to the last stop,
splattered and battered outside the chippie.

Got his feet on the ground now!
Oh he were a silent one.
It's always the quiet ones.
But he were a good lad
really.

Still Rocking

The pale kid on the stage,
Les Paul slung low,
playing power chords to the stars,
a solo for his angels.
He straddles the universes.
The sparkling motes of dust
rise vibrating,
dancing into the skies.
The night is on fire.