October Poems – David Hay

October 15th


A sky swims forward

into the glen of a singing eye,

sinking inward

down deep silence,

where frothing darkness

washes mountain peaks,

birthing through waves

twisting like spines

across black rocks,

as a three-year spiked scream

brings cursed light to a still sky.





I caught the lamplight in a drowning pink fist, held it to a still visible star, causing concussions in a sky

cut red.

I retreat to my sleeping home.

Something dead should not continue to grow but ghosts sing, cry, howl, age, as the years cause deepening stretches of milk-fed skin – 

sagging into history.

I hold my struggling silence and witness. What is a writer if not a witness?

A song, stitched with blue and embroidered with the deep sea green of cities swept into the sea, rises skyward. An echo will drift Irrefutably  into my dying dream. A pink fist slowly sinking bleeds a once dead bird into the sky.



In a Morning There Is Too Much Life


The grey canopy, smothering the trees

so lost in their greenness that death tastes the same

as leaf membrane and branch breaks fail to punctuate

the lightest slumber,

pops with the last thunder of summer.

A  loving kiss of a couple signifying not goodbye but a return,

cuts deep, when loneliness corrupts a morning

two breaths away from joy.  


I search the streets for tyrants, slinking between

corporate shadows, composting pornographic

body parts in hearts collapsing inwards like spent out stars.


I calm myself, think of goodness bound into a physical form,

of a million acts too boring to be broadcast.


A prostitute gets out of a generic black car,

she stumbles then rights herself. The car speeds off.

She walks carefully down the road. By her shaking frame,

it obvious she is crying.

I consider if any word or action I have at my disposal

will alleviate the kind of sadness that strangles,

she turns the corner and is gone.


The tram door opens. Job junkies take up every seat.

I stick in my headphones, look out the window,

get my copy of the collected poems of Sidney Keyes, 

open a random page,

let punk playlist number 5 give me a final push,

stick my feelings in the spaces between the words

allowing each syllable and note to 

paint subterranean pictures

of the 20-year-old who died in 1943

and the young woman, 

struggling down a street to a fate

unknown but probably tragic.


At my stop, just before departing,

I focus on my girlfriend’s voice,

pressing my ear upon 

the hard, cold hours when she last whispered,

I love you.



Edge of Night 


Teeth touch deep, slide

into growing swells.


Panic drags clouds down sides of flesh-weaved sky.

A homeless man goes down a slide and smiles,

in an empty park, as the sun tiptoeing to set

shanks orange lines that trace rusted metal,

sad as a cabbage in a baby’s toothless grimace.


A  ghost, holding one of its legs like a rifle

pretends to shoot the man, glitching down the slide.


A man in a barely furnished apartment watches;

he is stained in every sense.


A woman in a local insane asylum is screaming,

she sounds like a train,

squealing around the London underground.


A back door slams shut,

a dark wind crouches in my heart,

it is two sentences away from springing.