:: Article

unboxing, teardown & other poems

By Mischa Foster Poole.

unboxing, teardown: What comes in sustains no eyes

That which comes into the place
sustains no eyes. The gogglebox is rubbed.
Marcello tips down the top of his lot and stares.
Palazzo has its tiles and use em when
the choristers come out to take their snack.
Allotted by the card box factor chanticleer
each corners turns itself and slips in here
a bit of ham. Poor boys.
They never knew nor won’t at this state
what it would be to turn a woman’s thighs
or skin a soft-boiled yolk, or to pull down
the window bracket, head out, wheeze.

unboxing, teardown: To mention one more thing that box

Only to mention one more thing;
that box you got me. It fulfilled
this problem, that you looked for the outside-in
and got the inside-out. Not much use
I hate to say. I hate also to give this concept back
and credit impulse more than common sense
my dear Fanny.       I takes
what time the shakes permit me to.
But you, you are all fairy ground and boys,
and knuckledust and sewage pump and groc-
ers’ pump and olive oil and ajax spread
and I could only half forget you for it.

unboxing, teardown: The house elevates

The house it elevates itself. Above a wall
talk all along the tables weighting. What’s on my head?
A bit of mutton – mine? A couple glasses.
         Will they come?
     It’s getting hard to tell.
Over the hour’s hump they take a break,
then redrawl: have you got a sec?
       Will they come?
Their casualness is not in itself a form of tamp
set in to muffle thudding at your gate.
Come in! Come in! We’ve all been waiting now!
Come in! The croquettes served, the miso warm,
come in and pull a bottle for your pains;
the crayfish turn, the toasties grow,
the ice-bath     ha!
the ice-bath never!

unboxing, teardown: matter of fact we had carols then

Matter of fact we all had carols then,
cognitive, ergonomic, seemingly
unalert to tackle what the great
problems of the era sent. I called the minister.
Find another way. So I set about
pedestrianising the great roundabouts of London.
No one came. The ribbon cut itself.
I slunkered off for a solo flute at Harry’s.
Old friend, the fizz. Outside gathered press.
It was sleet I think but barely to est-
ablish itself among the muck. Q.E.D.
I quipped.

unboxing, teardown: I took a bit of farmgate

I took a bit of farmgate at my loss
the setters’ floodgate made it at a pinch
but called me after, asked me I’d adjust.
It was not natural I should acquiesce
but I did, aye, and would do again for half as much.
I drove out in the fourbyfour to take a look.
He held its follicule upon the stump.
I looked. It didn’t take to wanting mothers now,
more so a coldsnap hence. I looked.
It weren’t too many years since I’d take a sharp axe
and bring it down on this or that noncogent thesis.
I took it now. aorta flumped.

A spider

’s tuck
ed its leg
s in on itself
to die mimic
king

victim
(s)
in a ball
of it
s own
web.

0a10978613_10101074359127859_1320114989246734730_n

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Mischa Foster Poole has lived in Granada, Kiev, Paris, Berlin and now Peckham, where he runs a monthly poetry night called ‘The The the’. His poetry has appeared previously in Poetry London.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Wednesday, May 25th, 2016.