Tim Liardet’s New and Selected Poems is due from Carcanet later this year.
World is the head inside. The jump of the optic nerve. Its Uzis are genteel. Its arbiters are deaf. Add to it the lips that are less a grin than a grave. Its guns hang like salamis. Though they are bereft of protein they somehow often seem to bleed. They’re tagged with the tenderloins. The new Pietà is now only hands with no body to be...
after ‘Pincher Martin’
You have already drowned, although you think you made it to the rock. The dwarf you build is the means by which you reconstruct yourself, stone by stone. The rock is a tooth. The gulls that flap around your head are umbrellas shaken out, reptiles that snap, the...
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