WordSalad: The Poetry of Luke Prater

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Slifting into low-slung winter sun,
savouring the effably ineffable -

this. moment.

every s e c o n d

sat in the first,
sensing the third;

present, sentient.

Shiftslip into the taxi bound for
rural railway,

as the Nokia blinked
for the first time in over a week.

“Ah, freedom, eh?”

Oddly apposite to embrace a stranger
for gutkick realisation
of the opposite.

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“Tool” – that’s what he called me.
Am one. Got one. Need some.

Crowbar to break open the door,
screwdriver to remove the
locks on the windows,

hammer to drive flat old skew nails
that puncture feet and snag socks,
glaring tetanus at me
tentatively treading
uneven oaken floorboards.

No tools,
no shoes,
no air -

force-fed recycled sighs of frustration.
A moribund potplant and I -
it’s hardly an even exchange.

When this is through,
I’d be a fool to reject
the offer of being a tool.

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Collapsed

a deck chair
face to Earth
bleeding salt

envelop me, Mother
offer your breast, succour

craving redeliverance of
ignorance; the impurity and
inconvenience of Adulthood

worn like a suit fashioned
by a hue and cry of enraged
madding seamstresses

drip
tears
sweat

impregnate soil, your skin
let a bird fly, or

swallow this man in
darkdamp pulsing utero

Lammas (First Fruits) Ceremony - Early August

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