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Christian Ward
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Common Music

C

Common Music

Near Millennium Wood, an overheated horse is burning a baby grand shadow into the ground. The earth sits up to take in its song. Ferns rock as a tuning fork the length of the planet's diameter tests the pitch. Red deer fawns lean into their mothers and the music catches onto every hair, straightening their flat-packed legs. Rabbits courier the tune into their warrens and it echoes for miles underground. Even the songbirds want in  — letting it piggyback inside their throat sacs until the time for dispersal. Come evening, the owls will add ossified notes of vole and field mouse to the beat, before it is remixed by the vinyl ni

Return

R

Return

An Easyjet slices the sky in half like a melon while the train eases out of Waterloo's boxy dress. Clouds dangle themselves in front of commuter's eyes, becoming part of cappuccino froth and whipped cream that slosh with every hard brake. We move past Lego council estates and trees which only dance to urban beats. The plane moves silently to the Med while the train speeds through south London, into leafy suburbs where every house is practically a semi and there are only cars in the street, not kids. I watch the scenery speed by, opening up like a picnic blanket, and cross my fingers, hoping it will land where I'll stop,

Tomahawk

T

Tomahawk

At this angle, the rose stalk is a tomahawk ready for throwing. Certain is the cut - the deep gash once it hits and all you feel are the thorns against your skin. At this angle, the rose stalk embedded in your skin is a thousand things gone wrong. Plucking each one out won't undo their pushing. There is only the white after this, the unforgiving white.

Watching the River Dart

W

Watching the River Dart

Pike wait in the reeds. The sun, tigering the riverbank, is the decider - whether to let what was rush through or what will be stay the course. Night slinks into view: I stand and look at the willow's branches dipping into the slow tide, and watch for the sudden dip of tails.

Moat

M

Moat

What surprised me most were not the rain-grey council estates still standing after decades, but the pristine cottage in the middle of them; a moat of washing defending its owner and her family from the youths and their dogs responsible for the kicked-in Chicken Surprise, the graffitied community hall; the Polish deli's shopkeeper peering out suspiciously, wanting the cottage's keeper to come and defend it while mopeds roamed like dragons across a badly-drawn map.  

Illusionary

I

Illusionary

The man walking in front of me cannot possibly be real: His coal-black hair is glued down like Ken's, whilst his jeans and bomber jacket scream 80's. Even the way his feet slink along to the cigarette in his hand seems odd. This man is fake I want to shout. But it's too late - he's disappeared into traffic like a movie cliché, almost frightening the made-up girl pouting kisses at the approaching bus.  

November: Deer Cull

N

November: Deer Cull

Nightly, gunfire and the thunk of another fallen stag. Dogs circle the kill as if it's a toy while their owners light up cigarettes. Men cheer as a doe is nabbed, her eyes blank as a glass of milk. Another and another and another. The hunters gush at the returns, joke of outperforming the markets. Morning, the chestnut trees remember the deer with their branches. Crows and jackdaws carry their memories in their calls, dropping them into the skulls of everything nearby. I wake to my neighbours foraging for shoots in the communal garden, the suddenness of movement making them dart through the hedges, back towards whatever ha

Mudlark

M

Mudlark

Overnight the shore crumbled. Coins turned scaly, electric. Beer caps sprung up like geysers. You woke to curtains arching from the open window. Alarm clock bobbing. The letter on your desk still unopened. Later, you'd tell me it felt heavy as a paperweight though you knew it probably weighed nothing at all. Overnight the sea seemed to have moved closer, almost touching the roses at the end of your garden. It rained, and the shore renewed, while your metal detector bleeped sweet nothings in the airing cupboard.

The 27 Club

T

The 27 Club

Horses thundered over Seattle when Cobain died. A Bengal tiger roamed the Notting Hill streets moments after Hendrix's death. Witnesses reported seeing rainbows on the Los Angeles pavement after Joplin's death was reported. Meteorologists were dumbfounded, no plausible explanation given. God dripped from the lips of every spray can. The Seine turned into a water snake on the hot July night of Morrison's death and, despite its placid nature, eyed the drug dealers on the Rive Gauche hungrily. Headlines scream AMY WINEHOUSE DEAD and I wait for howling dogs to silence the city while doves carry her into the night.

The Great Dane

T

The Great Dane

After saying Mein Fuhrer, he took a Wehrmacht oath and chewed on marrow. A battalion of flies at the Tiersprachschule lab were savagely mauled after flying too close to him. Poppies grew downwards. He did not think of the cattle cars, of the cloud shadows pinned to their roofs like angels as they left to the camps, of the thousands of hearts tumbling out of mouths, but chose instead to sleep, running through sit, roll over and beg whilst the villages,towns and cities were licked clean like bone.
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Common Music

C

Common Music

Near Millennium Wood, an overheated horse is burning a baby grand shadow into the ground. The earth sits up to take in its song. Ferns rock as a tuning fork the length of the planet's diameter tests the pitch. Red deer fawns lean into their mothers and the music catches onto every hair, straightening their flat-packed legs. Rabbits courier the tune into their warrens and it echoes for miles underground. Even the songbirds want in  — letting it piggyback inside their throat sacs until the time for dispersal. Come evening, the owls will add ossified notes of vole and field mouse to the beat, before it is remixed by the vinyl ni

Return

R

Return

An Easyjet slices the sky in half like a melon while the train eases out of Waterloo's boxy dress. Clouds dangle themselves in front of commuter's eyes, becoming part of cappuccino froth and whipped cream that slosh with every hard brake. We move past Lego council estates and trees which only dance to urban beats. The plane moves silently to the Med while the train speeds through south London, into leafy suburbs where every house is practically a semi and there are only cars in the street, not kids. I watch the scenery speed by, opening up like a picnic blanket, and cross my fingers, hoping it will land where I'll stop,

Tomahawk

T

Tomahawk

At this angle, the rose stalk is a tomahawk ready for throwing. Certain is the cut - the deep gash once it hits and all you feel are the thorns against your skin. At this angle, the rose stalk embedded in your skin is a thousand things gone wrong. Plucking each one out won't undo their pushing. There is only the white after this, the unforgiving white.

Watching the River Dart

W

Watching the River Dart

Pike wait in the reeds. The sun, tigering the riverbank, is the decider - whether to let what was rush through or what will be stay the course. Night slinks into view: I stand and look at the willow's branches dipping into the slow tide, and watch for the sudden dip of tails.

Moat

M

Moat

What surprised me most were not the rain-grey council estates still standing after decades, but the pristine cottage in the middle of them; a moat of washing defending its owner and her family from the youths and their dogs responsible for the kicked-in Chicken Surprise, the graffitied community hall; the Polish deli's shopkeeper peering out suspiciously, wanting the cottage's keeper to come and defend it while mopeds roamed like dragons across a badly-drawn map.  

Illusionary

I

Illusionary

The man walking in front of me cannot possibly be real: His coal-black hair is glued down like Ken's, whilst his jeans and bomber jacket scream 80's. Even the way his feet slink along to the cigarette in his hand seems odd. This man is fake I want to shout. But it's too late - he's disappeared into traffic like a movie cliché, almost frightening the made-up girl pouting kisses at the approaching bus.  

November: Deer Cull

N

November: Deer Cull

Nightly, gunfire and the thunk of another fallen stag. Dogs circle the kill as if it's a toy while their owners light up cigarettes. Men cheer as a doe is nabbed, her eyes blank as a glass of milk. Another and another and another. The hunters gush at the returns, joke of outperforming the markets. Morning, the chestnut trees remember the deer with their branches. Crows and jackdaws carry their memories in their calls, dropping them into the skulls of everything nearby. I wake to my neighbours foraging for shoots in the communal garden, the suddenness of movement making them dart through the hedges, back towards whatever ha

Mudlark

M

Mudlark

Overnight the shore crumbled. Coins turned scaly, electric. Beer caps sprung up like geysers. You woke to curtains arching from the open window. Alarm clock bobbing. The letter on your desk still unopened. Later, you'd tell me it felt heavy as a paperweight though you knew it probably weighed nothing at all. Overnight the sea seemed to have moved closer, almost touching the roses at the end of your garden. It rained, and the shore renewed, while your metal detector bleeped sweet nothings in the airing cupboard.

The 27 Club

T

The 27 Club

Horses thundered over Seattle when Cobain died. A Bengal tiger roamed the Notting Hill streets moments after Hendrix's death. Witnesses reported seeing rainbows on the Los Angeles pavement after Joplin's death was reported. Meteorologists were dumbfounded, no plausible explanation given. God dripped from the lips of every spray can. The Seine turned into a water snake on the hot July night of Morrison's death and, despite its placid nature, eyed the drug dealers on the Rive Gauche hungrily. Headlines scream AMY WINEHOUSE DEAD and I wait for howling dogs to silence the city while doves carry her into the night.

The Great Dane

T

The Great Dane

After saying Mein Fuhrer, he took a Wehrmacht oath and chewed on marrow. A battalion of flies at the Tiersprachschule lab were savagely mauled after flying too close to him. Poppies grew downwards. He did not think of the cattle cars, of the cloud shadows pinned to their roofs like angels as they left to the camps, of the thousands of hearts tumbling out of mouths, but chose instead to sleep, running through sit, roll over and beg whilst the villages,towns and cities were licked clean like bone.

Gone

G

Gone

We used to meet, but never eat, at White Castle on Monmouth street. Now it's just a lot with shit and squat where poor kids play in holey socks. At home Reap died and we all cried. Death to an era and one last ride.

auto

a

auto

A breath crawls here, towards the beginning of hair and shoulder, where collarbones flow over a slide of espresso and cinnamon and swell over a swollen seacoast, resting on swimming, audible glands. You wash the matter off and get to deep air; now, run along now, run under rivers that continue alongside frothy eyelashes. More light than life can stay. It can't reflect that it lives longer. A moist and whispering returning drowns aboard a home behind an electric company that conceals the words. Don't believe for them. They are craven and overconfident and they run fast. They always get away.
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My Bio
Current Residence: London
Operating System: Vista
MP3 player of choice: Windows Media Player

Favourite Writers
I have a few - Elizabeth Bishop, T.S. Eliot, Tobias Hill, Jack Underwood...
Tools of the Trade
pen, pad
Other Interests
Writing, reading, films...

The Secret Lives of Knives

The Secret Lives of Knives

An unmarked white van pulls up outside the local fishmonger, butcher and Italian restaurant every morning at dawn. Crates of knives are handled like fenced jewellery in the salted dark, the only witnesses trains meandering like long conversations. The knives will spend their time in a kitchen smelling of cardamom and aniseed, an elderly Russian man carefully filleting a sturgeon like a lover running his hand over a smooth back. Of course there will be nefarious purposes: a man butterfly crawling the length of a pavement. A teenager bleeding crimson secrets on a stairwell. Local women sometimes warn strangers of strange metal

First Drafts

First Drafts

A crescentry of sleeping foxes. Rosewood sparking in the forest's fist. Fern spores bridging across a stream. Rain pooling on boots left outside. Hams blotchy and smoking; their squeals ricocheting in the farmer's head. Footprints wedded to the elements. Flint axes questioning the microscope's motives. Knives salted before the thrust. A baby shark pulling the sea's levers.

Poems featured on Eyewear

Poems featured on Eyewear

Some of my poems have been featured on Eyewear. Enjoy them at http://toddswift.blogspot.co.uk/

Comments 160

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chadwood Writer
I miss your poems man.  :)
Happy birthday!
ForestDwellerHousesProfessional Artisan Crafter
Thank you for the watch, I truly appreciate it very much!
dragon-fly-to-meHobbyist Photographer
Hello Christian Ward. :) Thank you for adding me to your watchlist. I appreciate it very much.
Have a lovely weekend, sir. :sun:
No worries :)
halcyonshoresHobbyist General Artist
Thank you most kindly for the watch. :rose:
Have you been published yet?