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Rob Yates
Rob Yates is a previously unpublished poet and writer from Colchester, UK.

His work tends to be self conscious, introspective and crammed full of melodramatic imagery. It is heavily influenced by the modernists, primarily TS Eliot, and the Beat generation, namely Allen Ginsberg.

He also runs a blog dealing with UK current affairs and politics entitled The BNP Bashing Buddha, and flirts with the writing of plays, an art at which he is yet to develop any real skill.

He is currently working on a first novel which is unlikely ever to be completed. He hopes to retire at 45 with the profits made from it.

Binding Thoughts
By Rob Yates

What is this stuttered lung that holds the door?
Pegs the frames to both legs,
swings in the alleys that
try to avoid us.
What call to highland brings us forward?
The ball tilting so tantalisingly backwards
on an edge of town that
clowns and crooks cannot control.
Because the border shifts,
in sleep and out of mind,
left searching in heatstroke for a lightning strike
of sunlight.
Crawl so low and so far that
even the passenger train has rusted over
doors and handles.
Can’t handle this.
Seminal bliss is worth six search parties.
Across the bars of London,
in sidewalk cattle loads and
scar slaughtered
back ride up call me up, Huck
keep my head up.
Can I find it amongst these?
Doubt is equally easy to fly from night,
or burst through dayclouds like a clap of smokelight.
Hated to finger burst the lock but had to.
Calendar was too clean.
I swept the months away in panic
and left us both in offshore waters
clambering for a lifeboat.
The fact I nearly drowned her nearly
killed me.
Tears stained the cigarette as it flowed from
tin to lips to ground,
sucked dry of all the grime of
filthy town
is where I live.
Stripped of childish wonder,
now left as an East coast obstacle to
tight rope walking I’d like to try.
To feel the balls of feet flit in the frame,
the weight of air and maybe net beneath.
Maybe no net,
maybe a crash of bones and bullets,
bodies rolled across a rock,
and burned.
The sea edge pours me closer,
I scramble in.
Toast buttered on both sides up please,
said a waitress
to me once.
I was sitting sparked and wired on
methylated books.
Why I found romance in such a
I have no clue. No riddle
to match the dancing chess board.
No bonds to hold the pieces down
like animals. Elephant men
tied to a black and white suitcase.
Black and white suit would probably look nicer
and probably spark cheaper than a pre-ordered genocide,
probably lighter than a flick knife parade,
bolder than crafted kite runners,
stronger than welded rat traps
rattled shut to tip tap on
Lucifer’s back porch light. Didn’t you realise devils crawl from salted pork?
Scratchings on your head rest.
Anthills fold backwards,
moles tip them,
I split them,
lost it…

And as I sit propped tight on moonlight,
strapped between a star and strip
of black, just a strip
of black, just a strip,
I find myself counting losses on both hands,
and a few feet,
and I need to count blessings more often.
Conclusion to a rolling lie of tongue and bone.
Conclusion to a young man’s binding, rolling, roving thoughts,
grown old,
and gone cold.
Keep your light up,
stay bold.

Tale of the night,

Published in The Diamond & the Thief – April 10