Chris Brown lives in Newcastle. He is writing a collection of poems to be titled hotel universo.
the first coffee doesn’t wake you
you sleep in then go out
09:26 and or 28 degrees
but that was minutes ago
cooks hill books every room
in the house its own genre
half of fiction skimread
like a stylus skating dust
in the audible distance
know the song not the title
nor the words no more
than the melody really – the song?
on tiptoes handpicked the lady
and the little dog and other stories
alternate title try future cruelties –
tonight ol’ petrov’ll tell the beggars of Ukleyevo:
god’ll feed yer – at which political point
i’ll say no more or fall out of the poem
Don’t apologise for your ideas –
I actually liked that one, the way
you describe the light, rounding
the corner, the ice only vapour
on the glass. Things this close
to you. The irises and therein
the kind of longevity we quantify
in an afterlife! The early game.
The wind like nothing we’ve ever seen.
And things we know. I like it. I mean it.