Wrought inside a cherry centre, made-up from love-bound wind
Just while shit razors cry, I bend up for inexplicable owls whose spind skin
Gets woofing after dizzy eyes and pained breads and haloers for xmas wind?
O, you appear now to ask
All about the Ides of midmarch and devilries and abaddons and kicked limb
And we will starve for a slit as we gabble after
Domed dragglers that must come forever home to a mod casementer for failure
(And if I could have just one cool dreamtime, perhaps dead buckrabbits will
Beget bereft hair from huge mares and sea-sanders that render holy pets from
liveliness and pure Love).

Jim Bellamy was born in a storm in 1972. He studied hard and sat entrance exams for Oxford University. Jim has won three full awards for his poems. Jim has a fine frenzy for poetry and has written in excess of 22,000 poems. Jim adores the art of poetry. He lives for prosody.

You can find more of Jim’s work here on Ink Pantry.