MATTHEW SPENCE: A nomadic poet who practises Zen, who is a vegetarian, who is a peace-loving anarchist.
Tweets @mspence_1 . email
RECENT APPEARANCES: The Rialto, Southerly, Agenda, The Morning Star.

It Rushes In

It isn’t without loss that I ask to be considered
or that a withering team of leaves come channelling in
as they never do in Queensland
in the autumn, where the body meets the sky.

What tonight is is not debatable, or what you choose
to do as ‘the storm of a century’ goes scattering off
with sarcastic national drawl. In the scheme of things
I’ve hardly noticed. Trucks the length of weeks,
the way drivers wink, sunk-eyed and distant,
the slow, full sway of wine.
We return home from our various timelines
like children with filthy knees.

It is said that here in the universe there are certain points,
or in the universal unearth-
ing of certain points in forests or on the pointed-
ness of highways,
where the ground’s slang calms,
chill as boat
and where the wind embalms the night
as if colonizing cute.

Could there be a truth to all of this information,
like a room full of phones? Or as the text requests,
that the blankness below will do the explaining?

60 Miles to the Coast

You chose three varieties of mint, let the vans scent in
soldiers from South Yorkshire, injustice on the wind.

Oh what it is my minty friend, to move in on a point
like dogs about a scent! And to watch the vans grill push against

The wind wet hills of South Yorkshire, distant outcrops like soldiers
in volcanic ash, arms outstretched as trees against the blast.

Wash - version three

His body is in a complex state
like a digital lock,
lives in a shack on a plot between sites,
houses either side like opposing forces,
the coarseness of private space.

Bones grate down to plastic, the stream with its rocks and loops,
the great pushers of the cosmos
clutching their wisdom
in polythene bags.

His parents are a couple from the south, throw their weight
about the universe like cars,
nothing is safe from this consumption.

We spend our time exploring
the point the streets take the beach
and giant hotels that reach
up like monoliths and reflect the sky.

There are days, waiting in line for a job
or a cheque, when a sneeze rings out
across the sea of computers,
so biological amongst the ranked machines,
like a spider crawling across the surface of an engine.