Art Allen

there was a girl who murmured sweat-pea

before she sent her rough brother after me

and she comes and stays sometimes in my mind

like a toothache

or the memory of a few good hits to the face

that rocked you back and teared your eyes

but had such right trajectories


The flavour of her stocking feet on cedar board comes back

and the smell of resin on her fingers

where they ran the banisters dorsal vein up and then


wrapped to the waist in white

and I following quietly to eat apricot jam from her fingers


I feel you should know that what I am giving to you

is all the night skies I have seen through venetian blinds

and it has sailing knots tying my shins to this girls bygone appetites

I think I will tell you while you sleep like a coal tit of

how when she looked down before she looked up

her eyelashes descended to her feet

and when I entered her it was sinking into a mine of fabric

with a dry mouth beyond recrimination


Art Allen is a critic, poet and photographer living in Norwich, Norfolk. His articles and poems have been appearing in student newspapers and poetry magazines for the last couple of years. He is in his final year of studying for a BA in English Literature at the University of East Anglia. He is desperately sad to not have a book out yet but you can read his poetry blog at

Art's work is featured in Elbow Room Vol Seven