Andrew Taylor

by Ian on September 13, 2012

Andrew Taylor is a Liverpool poet and co-editor at erbacce and erbacce-press. After several pamphlets, a full collection is forthcoming from Shearsman. Poetry has recently appeared in Poetry Wales, Otoliths, Instant Pussy, Mad Rush and The Red Ceilings.  He supports Everton FC.

Wilder

From this floor
the seven views
of Liverpool

at night thinking
heavily

dreaming secrets
of Melanie

beds are tended
and cared for
1982 and expectation

naked rail suicide
Jono says it’s eight pints

love boils away
lost in smiles
the Alt runs
low

the Old Roan
is stabled
sudden snowfall
trains stop

port stained face

Send Me Something Nice

Sweet style of tracks
smuggle tubes of coffee
from hotel rooms

She’s been rampant
all week

Nice is not a word to use
in the title of a poem

She’s in the pit-stop defying
gratification

text at your
command

Clare Grogan stands above
implores the crowd
to push back

I understand the rules
and remember them

She’s been on fire all day
it’s delicious

Index finger ring
catches remnant light

The Golden Ratio

Like bramble filled tracks
this leads somewhere

The dripping of melting ice replicates
the cube in your vodka and juice

slowly so slowly this force began
turned into a torrent grabbing

power from everywhere biting
into half-sleep leaving scratches

on skin to ponder and wonder
if the blood that threatens to surface

will taste like cherry Coca-Cola mixed
with chocolate

If I don’t speak then the flowers
and poetry will

Allow these seeds to strengthen
and shoot before the snow

truly melts leaving remnants to
gather and be captured under forming ice

Sheer Poetry

Like Huff’s poetry Beekay’s heavenly voice
and Lara’s bangs

project’s end lead to project’s beginning
taillights on the M63 corridor

the rolling hills of Yorkshire

in room 346 throat hangs out in a lonely
bed while clouds dissipate over Ohio

in the early hours

authoritarian voice says “Drink more water
Andrew” no nicknames here

I love the light fading over the folly
on the brow of the hill

Adele likes it when the air is so thick
and opaque I prefer it outside in the fading mist

Previous post:

Next post: