Charlie Baylis is from Nottingham, England. He is the Poetry Editor of Review 31 and Assistant Editor of Broken Sleep Books. He has published two pamphlets Elizabeth (Agave Press) and hilda doolittle´s carl jung t-shirt (Erbacce). His poetry has been nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize and once for the Forward Prize. He spends his spare time completely adrift of reality.
my mouth tips ruby to the drive
in my dream the walls are shifting
a baby is crying the sink
when i swing the doors disappear
two babies crying the sink
i can shadow my shoulder
a man enters state room
wearing ballet shoes and pink
the wind the white flag waves
every window of the house is wide
the moon ghost ship sailing sky
my mother in silk in the mirror
find me in the cellar of my dream
three babies crying in sink
i will be here forever
i never knew
the first time it was morning
beside the river it was raining butterflies
beside the river it was raining wheat
i passed a small man wrapped in the flag of the republic
riding through orihuela on the back of a hurricane
he told me:
the wind of this town is my poetry
the flowers of the harvest are my children
the sunlight on your face is my song.
i passed desperate teenagers cut by broken glass
shooting up potatoes and miracles, shooting up exits
they called me amigo but told me to go
they threw a can at me when i said goodbye
insulted me with colourful words.
words i never knew, when i said goodbye.
the same morning as the first morning, i never knew.
the sky was pained with so much blue.
the weather was peaceful. a good day for wiping
myself from the face of the world, i thought.
stop. i looked out through his window. wipe me
from the face of the world, i thought.
thirteen seconds to escape
appears more than enough
I have only to roll a dice
to return to the time where you ran
spiralling like a spire
through the virgin streets of your childhood
through Andalusian villages flooded with aztec gold and blank flags
through the gates of hell to the arms Persephone
to the number 13 on your breast
through Cordoba in green and white ruins the teardrops
accumulating slowly on the page
the bronze bells banging round the old town
the Mezquita gutted all 13
a low voice rumbles over the hills
but it is not San Raphael
nor is it your father
in a dream dolls are dancing in pink and blonde wigs
the night is soft and hazy
you write in Javanese script, in Persian hieroglyphics
your first collection perched precariously on your head
the cover shows birds scattering as if scared by thunder
estefania cabello, poetry dripping from your elbow
take a moment to look back through the lines
of our beautiful past, once when you wrote
‘thirteen seconds…appears more than enough’
I worried about you, sifting the mist
a young girl by the big wheel enchanted
by cloud like strands of candyfloss, wondering
if you vault from the cages of your mind
do you have a safe place to stay?
do you have somewhere to shelter?
or should I call the cops?