321

You paint the loud air before you,
Goldbasking cock-of-the-rock!

Gloomy verdure crashes behind,
Blank waves of night green and

Flashes of a paler, twilit blue.
In the heavy, turbulent air of the

Intervening space, lily-white
And hot-pink orchids hang,

Alien and spiritual, pushing the
Darkness further back into its

Thrumming, restless variance.
You are a statue of purest colour.

Your dark body seems a slight,
Useless slough, hanging from a

Great broken ray of orange. It
Is as if a spume of magma bore

Shapelessly up into the jungle
Air. Within this fearsome light-

Work, your eye hangs as a lone
White cinder before a firestorm.

Owen Lucas is a British writer living in Norwalk, Connecticut. As a student at Goldsmiths College in London, he was taught poetry by Anthony Joseph and Jack Underwood, among others, and started to produce his own work. A close association with members of what became the Clinic arts and poetry collective lead to readings across London and to his first publication. Since moving to the United States, he has featured in numerous British and American journals and poetry reviews. In September, Mountain Tales Press will publish his first chapbook, entitled Afterworks.

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2 Responses to 321

  1. Pingback: Eunoia Review | owen lucas

  2. mikerol says:

    Overwrought and definitely trying too hard to write pretty poetry! Not my cup of tea.

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