A Selection of Poetry by Christopher Cash



24th June 2017


Sitting alone in the grass

green welding to my thigh,

branches are cackling around

the moon’s glaucous clouds, the air

uncomfortable — piped

through gas masks, city lights

are far from my reach.


This couldn’t be seen in any

gallery, or etched in church plaster,

the sunken grey is reflecting

each half breath that loosens my

tongue to different elms or

maple ferns all moulding into nickel.

Plain and dirty, like a muddy puddle.


But cars are drifting and scathing

through loose gravel and needy

buttercups, my body is moving

through damp soil and yellow

grains —- but pictures reveal

light in my eyes, soft hollow cheeks,

not the vibrant life disjointed to me.




11th October 2017


The shadow of the moon

lurks silently,

park benches are electric

to my thought, my rationality.


Each headless figure,

foreign to me — swiftly

moving — is living tonight

in seeded air.


Varnish stains fall onto

my shirt. I can feel

other’s immobility,

each wood chip


under my fingernail

is yet another reminder

of my youth. Becoming stiff,

as if commissioned to breathe.


I can feel your feeling,

yet cannot see your truth.

Perhaps the icy days of

bleakness will draw


from my resilience.

Perhaps you’ll find

me between soil and

flowers — family roses.




30th June 2017


Pour me another

‘senseless love’ —

I’ll loosen my lips

to your liquor stained kiss.


You stood behind

stained oak — the

rusted iron ore

held our hands before


tipping us into the

ocean, spilling grains

of salt and lime

for each time


we hit the rocks

at shore. Perhaps

palm trees will

let my lungs fill


with pure air — ripe

and fluid, like

my fingers fanned

through this sand


not jagged, homely.

I’ll lose my disposition

and check my key

if you follow me


through starry night

skies — lusting

every lost footprint

along a fiery flint,


edging towards the

candle lit cave you

found for me.

We lay soft and free


without wallets

along our thighs,

without thoughts in

our hair — only sin.


Until the sun warms

the waters of love,

we hear our heartbeats

under handmade sheets.