Fever Pitch: Poems by Abigail George

Image: Sam D from Flickr

Image: Sam D from Flickr

Fever Pitch

Gardens of the sun –
I need your fields to survive.
For plants to branch out.

This is the future –
Swim. They do not tell you this.
Wait for adulthood.

Then you will realise –
Backlit bare trees. Patios,
Girls found in Hades.

Barbecues and booze –
Stealing sips of dad’s whisky.
Birches that are cold.

Smelling the meadow –
You will lean against a tree.
Remember childhood.

Swim against torment –
You live with grief. Desire. Praise.
You play Say please me.

Gardens of the sea –
I need your schools of tuna.
Without meaning to say it.

Ongoing lighthouse –
You do not even know it.
The back of my hand.

Anticipating –
The green shoots in those regions.
Vines cry out for rain.

Open your journal –
He was going to kiss me.
He was my compass.

I touched the mirror –
Nothing can hurt your lovesong.
The landscape quivered.

The first word was sky –
The next ‘muddy blue arrows’.
Light. A myriad.



I must unweave you –
Skeleton in the closet.
Slope. Forest. Prairie.

Milk fed hospitals –
Childhood of stars inside out.
The green creek rotten.

I saw a mountain –
Monarchies in your journal.
Woolf’s river. Ouse.

A lake of mud. Grass –
Seeds must be harvested.
Their veins like gulls.

Cool spoonful of reeds –
A growing feast in my hands.
Poking their noses.

I hold drums hostage –
Without even trying to.
Silent winter dreams.

Pinpricks of highways –
Lighthouses guide drunken boats.
Women like geese.

Ink. Cars in darkness –
Braille. Tender is paradise.
Driftwood never sleeps.

Starlight in your face –
I hold coupons in my hands.
They scrape my ghost heart.

Iris for a mouth –
Poppies fire governs the eyes.
Watch this thirst monster.

Look at shattered me –
I am speaking gobbledegook.
Veil dropped to ankles.

We are difficult –
Desire. Dark windows. Grief. Praise.
The bathroom mirror.



A word is a flood –
I nibble on loneliness.
It keeps me awake.

Songs of the river –
They are all grand souvenirs.
Sky the bluest glass.

Couples arm in arm –
Is this what love’s purpose is?
Earth answered. Yes. Yes.

I have maps of ruins.
It tells me things like the time.
I am a sentry.

Men make good husbands –
Not all men are bastards’ with-good-hair.
Many can love us.

I read my script –
Perhaps I have no ego.
It says here, ‘marry.’

I am in a play –
Half of it is wonderful.
I have a gun, hats.

Women like hats, guns.
Mountain air is like your face.
Cute. Paralysed joy.

Hearts are red balloons –
My laughter sounded hollow.
Dance away my man.

Devils. Pain marks you –
In ways, you cannot forget.
I triumphed like Sputnik.

Pleasure is the truth –
Chrysalis mystery self-portrait.
Tables. Apron strings.

All poems © Abigail George
IMAGE: Sam D via Flickr

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