Stag Party
  Jamie Bradley

Mercy is clinical. Infants fall from every word.
A breach in the face-work of earth.

Crag-eyed men with old coats humble as flayed saints
eyeing the young men & boys
eyes embossed as two apposite coins.

We hold on to them so hard
that ghosts become waterlines
overboard with the smell of lime-scale
& the appeal of clarity.

Segments storm in bee-stung double
readings, swollen with the articles
of strange liquor. The story is the mechanic.

Go away you particular animal
with your quota of air & scant pleasure.
Nobody lies about the weather on purpose.

We watch the hockey game & talk
of sport shooting in the north where no one
has blood on their hands anymore.

Past Issues Contact and Submissions About The Steel Chisel Author Profiles