The Girl With Blue Wristbands


She ate chips in the dark

hiding from that bubble,

light glides in the shadowed

patches; as she waits.


At night her façade breaks

make-up running deep,

that once ever so confident girl

slides up her blue wristbands;


Each slice a voice breaking on the shorelines

with each cut her inner struggle is mapped

from back head of knuckles

into pale blue veins.


When daylight shows the morning crest

those blue wristbands

linger of washed fragrance

smelling fresh


No glimpse of blood her scars imprisoned

only in the room

that the girl with the blue wristbands
will feel most


Black Water



Did toes curl up on shorelines

like tortoise heads hiding in shells?

when earth disrupted the even flow

opening gaping borders – a bottomless well!

pebbles quaked from sand monsters

angels drunk on sea vomit

riding inside the tides of black water.

Tips of house and red Toshiba

spinning on ripples of apocalyptic black waves

radiation seeps from wounded reactors

like souls reaching the bottom of their graves;

where mermaids wear gasmasks and sing requiems

homes are now squares with fainted lines,

debris in Chem reflections lined with glints of barium

Did toes curl up on shorelines?

like tortoise heads hiding in shells.


No One Loves Us Like The Graveyards


A dark heart has captured Ragga

where only petrol blood-pools span

the Euphrates river; lips were sealed

like stitches weaved from the soul,

truth would prevail beyond her death

as she celebrated Eid in her pyjamas;

No one loves us like the graveyards.


They do not watch the stars

Even though they stare deep into amber sky,

Bumping into each other

While walking the shopping aisles,

Not for any religious purpose

But for the drones and the missiles

Webbed in skylines of this Syrian circus,

No one loves us like the graveyards.


City of Glass



Passing the disused multi-coloured trams

sleeping in waste of black confetti

garden of shard bottles where children played hopscotch with broken glass,

above concrete trees – walls in golden leaf graffiti.


Cobweb threads the frost on flowerpots

hanging hump of leaves like snowmen in Autumn,

City of glass – A perimeter in Teflon mesh

where conker shells swam in black pastry gutters,

sulphur rising in the blood stone pits of pig flesh.


Drinking cold whispers from warm women

waltzing with the lights from smouldered traffic cones,

pinstripe trees ensemble like tall dark knights of order

aluminium structures tremble where footsteps roam.


Angels played an evening of grave hopping

where a fox is pissing in the air drunk on the dregs of dirty drip trays,

city of glass – a world beneath our feet

recyclable foundations are reassembled like the quickening of a trawlers swaying lamp,

City of glass – Towers of anatomy – a paper cut with no skin!

Matt Duggan

Matt Duggan was born 1971 Bristol U.K. The winner of the Erbacce Prize for Poetry 2015 his poems have appeared in Five 2 One, Harbinger Asylum, The Journal, The High Window, The Seventh Quarry, and many more. His prize winning collection Dystopia 38.10 (Erbacce-Press) is now available.



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