spectres & fieldings: six mid-apocalyptic sonnets by Nathan Thompson


the castle derek is my ambles
ambition I will reach you
wraithed in moonlight shredded
railings interrupt entrance me
no portcullis can prevent
ghostly presence plastic
bag caught on aforementioned
& such antlers jousting
jest me you bells tinkle
vampirically false in glass
beds beside the lady fielding
is truncated gothically
magical this all
souls cock crows no more



thunder burns the switches
sweet again marsh mallows bring
out your candles dead
eyes fishing hooks the lake
roils closer pitched slipping
fins emerge atonal klitschkos
whistle through your key
holes molten smoulder
silver toned oh lady fielding
bite me shortly wispy knot
tonight too tight and pull
the curtain over stupefied
grim knockings uncanny fancies
desperate for snacks explains no twiglet



my wrap round shroud my balcon may
I enter rules like role play fielding
me – oh you! – enough eternity
already’s too long lips
curl toothpicks round
the art of killing rhymes
return to bee keeping acorah
encroaches my suburbs
junk mail exhibits consciousness
pushed your letterbox addicted
credit double folded
sheets white with
cells balance ah affection buys me



wafts the crypt exhales
expiring like miners under
water this plant is
my new century spiky
heads yvette means different
somethings pikey blunders favour
boneful the taxi’s omnibus opining
foul with choking parts prophets
mail me enlargement little
jon aggressively party on
arrows fortunes go faster rack wheels
turn my maiden fielding green
& spineful sassy blood outpouring
essential updates derek saved shut down



green in the forest motes my eye
beams merry broken peasants
dust it returns clean glass
covers my fieldings tomb with longing
retinas detatched bloodlines
sunset wheezing industrial
forgery from elephants
plastic prosthetics supplemented
carbon dating columns
wanted famine victims to stitch
together pleasant communities
as ours is hands clapped in iron
ladies forgive my bags clutched grateful
lashes burn I cannot dead a gypsy girl again



oh all wet I am rumpled now you
know me skin pinned oracle derek
transplant yr ramparts jolly old time
a crafts ruin galvanised my fielding
new drips rich licking tongues
toothless visions medium
bare balding facts by quantity
shrouded their savage me
giggling discovery channelled
that dead hearts beat not with love
regrets natch sorry joking
me little pussy me weeping
scales fresh fetid high fielding electric
hanging orbs divest me of my trump


Nathan Thompson was born in Cornwall, and now divides his time
between Jersey and the UK. Since his debut collection “the arboretum
towards the beginning” came out in 2008 he has published books and
pamphlets with Knives Forks & Spoons, Gratton Street Irregulars and
Oystercatcher, the latest of which is “…,or the Night Terrors” from
Oystercatcher. “Explorer 9” is due from Zimzalla in 2016. He holds a
PhD from the University of Salford and is currently working on a
monograph on Psychogeography and Contemporary Poetry

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