:: Article

New York Poems

By Alex Niven.


Curt islands, and
glass glimmering.
Wrist spangled.

Crushed men.

Another step and we’re
back into the light.


Today I simmer
with afterthoughts,
addenda, bits
of notes and besides
you tell me
there is nothing
under the moon
we cannot undermine.


Your eyes
are flayed with
the world’s edge

and the chance
to be born all
over again.


birds giggle you
when fluttering boast
of your feathers

scythes sinews
it ghosts
my heart up

the shivering cup
of the sky


What do I think will happen?
I don’t know.

Black curlicues reach out into
the glutinous ocean.

Wade into it, I suppose.


Right now there is no one.
The clerks are tearing down the towns.
The poor curdle in bunkers.
Records loop endlessly.

(RIP Adam Yauch)


Moil, voiceless, tendrils.
Frail bird-wings and The Body.
A healthy respect for form or

free verse for minimal cool.
CVs, junkets,
status-obsessives, word-molesters.

A sallow child
begging in the belly of power
for a bone.

Alex Niven is originally from Northumberland and now lives in Leytonstone in East London. His poetry has been published in Ash, Etcetera, North-East Passage, and the Oxonian Review, and his poem ‘The Beehive’ recently provided the epigraph to Owen Hatherley’s architectural survey A New Kind of Bleak. He is currently working on a combined work of poetry and criticism for Zero Books, and a book about Oasis’s Definitely Maybe for the 33 1/3 series (Continuum).

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Friday, April 26th, 2013.