World class

Posted on February 10, 2021 by carltellstales

Your head looks like Zinedine Zidane’s.
You have no socks on your feet,
showing off the softest touch.

Creating space

Posted on February 9, 2021 by carltellstales

I’m learning
to sleep
on the edge,
creating
space
for when you
decide to
jump in
and tell us
about everything
you’re scared
of.

Beginnings

Posted on February 8, 2021 by carltellstales

After Terrance Hayes

Let me begin again. We were
a couple of boiled eggs looking for a soldier,
a determined collection of crumbs
who knows what they want. Let me begin again.
We were ducks. Let me begin again.
We ordered vegetarian duck and chose a film
to sleep to. Let me begin again. We never met.
I stayed in the past wearing unopened skin
but you still had hands the size of diggers
scooping voices into your ears. Let me
begin again. You offered me some cake.
Let me begin again. You offered me
some lemon drizzle cake.

Bloody hell

Posted on February 7, 2021 by carltellstales

I’m listening to an interview
with Kasper Schmeichel
about high performance
and winning the Premier League
and he’s still my age
and his hands are massive
and his head is handsome
and his accent is dreamy
and you’re still not here.

You suck

Posted on February 6, 2021 by carltellstales

In modern professional wrestling
fans prefer cheering the bad guys.
They say the good guys are not relatable.
They say the good guys are bland.
They say the good guys are not cool.
Last week I saw a customer in Sainsburys
get down on his hands and knees
and pull the tins of tomato soup
from the back of the shelf to the front
so no else had to go to the trouble.
When he stood up, his muscular puffed chest
was bedazzled in a Spandex leotard
and thrash metal blared down the aisle.

What the grass was hiding

Posted on February 5, 2021 by carltellstales

After Tishani Doshi

A 50 pence piece, a fingernail sized pebble,
the wiggle of a worm, an unopened pot of Pringles,
an outstretched top corner save, Moria Stuart,
pickle on a Tuesday, my son’s future voice,
a splinter of a perfectly boiled egg shell,
a pint of cold water on an empty summer stomach,
the holes in running shoes, gherkins, pigs,
learning how the perfect high five occurs
when you look at your partner’s elbow.
The grass was hiding things that get you through.

Litter?

Posted on February 4, 2021 by carltellstales

Fortunately,
my skin is the green ink
my wife is drawn to at lunchtime.
My bones are the crisps
that once lived in closed, greasy foil.
I am open.
WALKERS is a word I no longer need.
My eyes are floating barcodes
scanning for shades of grey.
The miniature jagged edges
are my baby teeth
dripping
for something to chew on.