3 poems by Anna Ticehurst

Open Season

Segue furniture stores straddle
dehydrated billboards as
latte foam falls from the sky
pushing through caribou blood
and reinventing the log cabin
in the boiling snow.
We set a pin in it, speculating
on survival
within brimful pickling jars.
This is what is meant by tenacity,
what we mean to haul back through
tennis court wires
licking jam from our fingers.

Found some Bambi eyes blinking
in the sand, needs love all night long
with the diamond necklace, or
cashmere camisoles on gingered up
squares, tantric illusions read from a manual
test the waters of a different
output with wants coming as hard-coated
shiny pellets.
Switch to watching reconstituted Walmart
babies reared under our tracksuits,
riding on promises of discounted groceries
pureed to a rich mineral soup.

Other lives spent in spandex stretch
from the screen to the couch where
faceprints in manilla file words headed:
IMPERATIVE: Dreamwork to be done
constructs shift to the edge of the beach;
a carousel gets caught in the concrete mix,
tacky fingers through the hair,
still hot from the candy floss inferno of
dispossessed holidaymakers.
So what if this means life in a canister,
continued reticence is pointless

vacillating between this and chintzy covers
of laminated tea roses, alternative options
blossom through the open architecture.
Stare ink and octopus onto a plate;
how far does this go toward
policing the politesse, spreading
harmony thick like crunchy peanut butter.
However, the discourse runs like viscous
into your open palms swindling the recurrent
towards the black

            switch on at 4, punching holes in the
LED’s tiny face before going double time
and cracking open that somatic lesion in
search of more fruit machine cherries.
Stop to lick orange juice from your chin.
Costs of connectivity filched from
juice concentrate and redesigned to provide
headsets in various sizes so hum now
over broadcasts pushing latest closures
into recesses where shoes can be stored.
Leave hollows where catseyes were
picked from sweaty tarmac to hang
like rhinestones on our belts.

Prospecting on Color Me Beautiful ranges,
the hillsides are propagated and doused in
ginseng and cotton wool, expunged
personas shimmer like heat haze;
finding a place in this landscape is difficult.
You get caught at the throat and pass the
day busy eating jelly tots we used as pawns.
There are no defence lines now, just a
couple of people we like to hand
blow torches now and then.

In the Centenary Gardens,
I lose you
push pavements to the back of my eyes,
fighting at losses in the tinted interior,
swallow Optrex and do away
with the periscope only to
silence desires and
shove them into little paper bags
to discard like sugar.

Abasement Marks

Constative explosions break the deluge.
Every morning move out to drown alone
in order to continue and carry
over the bars the chance of a real

In the basket pushing leaded lids back
over again, sink-hole crying forgotten
you look to who’s calling from
the tin can slung from tree to tree

fingers stretching foliate towards a
receding gem, flailing loosely after
tattered kites every-time you bid to
look beyond the terrapin-hooded sky.

Push Formica into this ventral
tegmentum to prevent further outbursts,
everyone can be who they want to
be. Snapped at once at that pitching

driftways fishing you out of the gulfs
to pocket my vanity of petty incidence
and set the locket for safety’s sake
towards tonight and back up this keepsake.

Shift yourself under the sand and
paint your price lisping on the
scales between blurred distinctions
ground to powder the lost assurance

before the part that really gets me
is coming over all of a palpitated
newspaper doll this morning; inserts
for the future follow along collapsible seams.

Face-prints mutiny during overtime,
ever chasing, I char my
floatation tank and swallow down
jalapeno lassis, wanting the world

to glow like a neon sign, hot-wired
adrenal glands spattering electronic
fight or flight into my butterfly kiss.
Hold down and submit to reticulation.

Seeing other faces transferred to the
identity parade lines acceptingly,
smile at those confining gestures
through the ringer and take out

your hand from that blender now.
Cross my palm with fistfuls raised
from the hairline, nominally a wink
in the night chain of subventions

rocketing upwards on a soda-stream
blood rush bubbles bouncing off
freckles in your eyes tumbling towards
a more rigid floor plan on the gravel.

What you will reasonably bend to fit
and preen with a blunt edged bill
under the same microscope, flash
lights on you through that idle mouth

to your loved one through a tube
stretching recorded instances to
cover the melting scotch tape
of memories. Filing points against

emery boards, crimped hair brushed
to one side, over again and carded
by delinquent choices within the
curvature of her spine tap back at

the squared circle disproportionately
hollow and craning that dell between
smooth overheads taking nothing from
me but my lips and what’s besides
left in innermost recesses to depart.

Thinking Practice

Beta-blockers against the pips
effusively less on the pastrami
back rub is this wakefulness next
to stilettoed heart rung through to
speak now and hold. Ahead of it
breaks your

thrust and parry of the dominant
palimpsest lodged intercostally,
tap-holing your white breath to billow
figurines from the oil drum, otherwise
being the compassionate rib-cage
relapsed exponentially stuck sick
to the sump.

Tankers move in raised handshakes
bangled clinchers keep time with
hair-lip refinements, the fiscally removed.
Last week’s weigh-in left me groundless
procuring a soft-shoe shuffle to
the total abandonment of rapeseed
found wanting in the night
still placing those eczema mittens
over your eyes to

cut the sash cord and let fly night
time flutters, scrambled lemon hits
the asphalt bust squarely on chin
strap up the segment of prospective
encounter, countering that and
grappling against inflated rubber gloves
smacking together fingers like
fat swollen purple grapes

a new arm at your side, moves you
craving summer’s heat-rash by proxy
pizza-faced and waiting by the
hypomanic’s bedside. Nursemaid to
yourself, record generatively the
tracings of black nerves through tar
neuron sparks appear as plastic
holograms stuck to the wings of
ivory butterflies battered against
the whirlpool of hot margarine.


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