Owen Vince – 5 poems





zebes; is for wilting, un black, &c foliate.
means descent upon descent, upon
for the wildness of my thoughts
they are like diffusions, echoing
but my hands are as wide as stones
and maps mean nothing. Light means,
falso, or other of my curled, my life
orange gold into red black into



both of my hands have seized up, about
the deep green, this bottle night. The
embankment is like a child’s drawing
of a robot – with serried teeth, eating
into the water. When the wind here is right
you can breathe forever, in endless mouth-
fuls of cool air. Two and ten dark
swallows pitch and yaw above me –
they are like air piled on air piled
on winter. Both of my hands are placed
in my pockets. It is the waiting i despise.



I love those parts of me that are metallic
&c quick coloured; i am as strong as the
mouth from which the world hangs. I was
buried once on zebes. I buried all of my enemies
on the green-back of zebes. Ridley is a name
carried on the licked unbright air. I am reduced
to crouching. Often i am found in eight directions.
Zebes is a series of dispersals into increasingly
unclear water. Paint blossoms in water as tea
stains water as blood turns into clouds in still
unflowing water. these are the things i find most obvious.



to greet death with affection – to show the greatest
affection for the dead – to stammer, with the intake
of breath, and to itch – a decorous soundly, the heat
of yellow light. I don’t peel oranges. I don’t peel
lemons in the dark bayous of brinstar. I am crouched
in four positions, reverberating. I meet death not with
affection nor hope nor bloody mindedness but a certain
grainy certitude. Fire springs from my body. My shell
splits clean from my body. My arms are thrown wide,
and bend behind my body. I do not peel fruit in this dark.



to crash-land in your language; to pull the field up by its
tendons. I walk the forest as if depth were not yet. I am
stunned by the way maple trees arch their bodies. I am gripped
by softly pink television dramas. Now i have all of the answers
to their arraignments. I have foreseen every possible problem
you encounter in dining rooms, in hallways, at the head of a
flight of stairs with the fan slowly turning. Nothing i encounter
is strange to me, by which i mean, its body is as probable, and it
has no propensity for redress, for dying backwards.



Owen Vince is a poet, experimental games critic, and editor of PYRAMID Editions poetry press. He lives in France, and tweets @abrightfar


About gobbet

gobbet is a literary magazine dedicated to publishing the very best experimental poetry and prose. Intellectual perversity and explorations of dark themes are positively encouraged. We are only interested in work that is progressively experimental. We want to see risks, and we want to see them pay. No previously published work. Prose should not be longer than 1000 words. There are always exceptions. Send 3-5 poems. Include a short bio. Send submissions to gobbetmag@hotmail.co.uk Work will be published every 5-10 days. We also intend to publish anthologies of selected work published in gobbet. We will do our best to reply promptly. Most submissions will receive a decision within a month.
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