A poem called “blizzed” by Barney Ashton-Bullock

this poem is inspired by this Rockwell Kent painting ‘The Trapper’ (1921)


your remnant shred of cleaved sentience,
its integral winnowing downforce; whorling 
from pioneer skittish flakes to full-sketch sophomore, 
from freeze-dried petrichor to bombrush, snowfield fuzz
eddying in fleeting, fitful plenitudes ‘midst our want for more - 

your intercession; awed exfoliant of tepid vacuities - 
your tufting micro-ministrations mush sombre vastnesses;
your crystalline emboss/deboss of serene, splayed splenetics,
your fluffy flux of fractious loads that witter down 
the last winsome aspects of icicle throtted flora - 

we await our snow-capped causeway’s re-emergence,
we approximate the wherefores of the tufted tracks 
we trekked the day before within these subsumption
frontiers of distal, mulched horizons you’ve presently 
so presciently blurred; you, slawing radiant as 

a brilliance of moonbeam, as distill, as a manifest
granularity smunched, in desiccate compact of frenzied 
flurries seemingly cemental and yet, so soon, so sunlit, 
flailing, expiring, revealing that now’s all is muchly more than 
the fallow-followed, drear furore of bored, workaday before -

renewed point and purpose to that watchful, lapping shore,
your selfless blanch to meltwater and our hallowed eyesmeet;
its ice-break whip-crack of quench and thaw and that’s when, 
dear friend, we’ll go rafting again, our buoyant brusque laughter 
in spindrift skim on those much missed lakes of deep azure.

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack: Barney Ashton-Bullock

3 poems from Barney Ashton-Bullock in Fevers of the Mind Press Presents the Poets of 2020

Wild Rose, Leaf, Engine, Rose Drive
Mass Grave #58

The bloodrot rooting
Over the rise that hides the pit,
That mallow mound that salves the flatlands vista.

From outré putrefaction, the wilder roses bloom,
Their pungent spumes of spiky fumes,
Fragrances that flounder in dead-hand dealt air,

A stasis that unstirs the shrill, still sadness,
Staunches the undertow flow of the unforgiven
Charred and hidden in the sods of soil despoiled;

Limbs oiled in its threadbare muddy mercy.

The irremediable blue

in ten years time you might retire,
you might come back to Blighty,
we might return to Port Isaac,
we might have time again
to ride again our bicycles,
from Cornish coast-to-coast again.

wannabe wayfaring,
we might loll laughing again
on a wafeted, scrumped tat
o'tartan rug again
on a dot-dash of distal headland
in the mizzen drench sea-mist
of a "Fogust" again

and brush fingers again
and have, again, the intent of a kiss,
not and never had,
but ever much onwards missed,
again and again, since then,
old friend,
when we'd talk in a distinctly
distant flannel;
we swarding swatches aswirl
within this still vast vista
of irremediable blue...

the last laugh never came to pass

crackling, crackhead rapidity of speech,
in a cack-handed matey tempo
spackled with infomercial riddlings
and pseudo-psychoanalytical patter
about the love in every one of us
being all that really matters

personality types as if purloined sachets
to add a touch of bitter or sweet to the mobby broth
whose vibrant, rolling broil of events
are tampered/sieved/blent into spuzzy negatives of denials
all misfiled into microfiche mêlées of confusion
in a filled-up soup of psyche (with its linger of crouton tumours)

oh, then, to defrag these fleshy coils of cortex
to promote more systematic recall
a crumbly softness arcing through
the spindrift spun trace remembrances
of cogency condensed to illegible;
slapdash jottings made with leaky fountain pens
on absorbent flays of blotting papers
and in there, somewhere, the specifics
of what you'd dare to recall
clogged in five years of such mulching, moulder of drippage
and when, and if, ever discerned, decrypted as
mere juvie, virtue-signalled, naïve jibberish
with no stanchion of good will or best wish
for this unanchored flail of flatline future

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack: Barney Ashton-Bullock

Poem from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art inspired by Leonard Cohen (2019)by Barney Ashton-Bullock “Yet”


Just a blurry Instamatic of a beautiful oblivion;
your pulse of molten honeyed cuss splurged
amphet emphatic 'cross empathies so tautly gut
strung; aggressive passivities' midst the berserk
crosswinds of all our jading, estranging, ageing lives.
Yeh! We who'd meanly thrived a while
decrying those who'd run 'empty to depot'
or into sand-drags and cul-de-sacs headlong,
when we were wired and unreasoned,
when we were high and couldn't know
that for every passing night train seen,
there'd be many that ran slow
and yet still made their way to Jesus
on some hallowed old railroad.
Uninvited revenants
can sabotage their deities.
Ad hoc flash-mob choirs gnarl
their by-rote chew of your psalmic 'Hallelujah' as a
latterday laical 'Amazing Grace'
in a virtue-signalled, idolatrous, paean deadpan.
(With a side order of triple fried tears sigh-cried, m'dead dear!)
Their churn of appropriated hosannas amaze me.
Their strewn, flung flumes of approximated levities
that bomb-rush bang the tenderer quietudes of resolve.
It is such we meek and merciful fans are slain whilst
in smulchy meditative mood; our mourn allayed.
As a grazed petal in a wind buffed descent might
skitter its chapped whispers until its end around
the remnants of diminished sonant range, and
gruffer mauls of declarations made, so,
luscious lowing Cohen intoned, stentorian steady,
ethereal as an icicles last twist of gliss,
his proffered profundities so profoundly missed
and, yet,  by most ignored as we, forlorn
satellites, drift half kiss to half kiss within
the interstice of the self-same gyres of
the 'sacred' and 'profane', yet, tardily realise they
said of Madame Thatcher too, 'We will not know
their like again'...
Just a blurry Instamatic of a beautiful oblivion;
we remnant cones of desiccant, we debris of
disciples who burnt, with you, in you, for you,
In the immanent umbra, and in the protective Arc
of your sainted, yet secular, book of sensu-songs
that frond our hubris, our hubris frond.

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack: Barney Ashton-Bullock

Poetry entry for Avalanches in Poetry 2 by Barney Ashton-Bullock : L’anti-arriviste est parti

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack: Barney Ashton-Bullock

Barney Ashton-Bullock

Barney Ashton-Bullock, is the poet/librettist in the ‘Andy Bell is Torsten’ music-theatre-poetry collective and he narrates his own verse on the Downes Braide Association albums. He is the founder of Soho Poetry Nights. He has poetry published, or pending publication, in a wide range of cult poetry journals**, in the ‘Avalanches In Poetry’ tribute anthology to Leonard Cohen, in the Dreich pamphlet ‘Famous’, in the Pilot Press ‘Queer Anthology Of Healing’ and in the ‘Soho Nights’ anthologies published by The Society Club Press who also published his first collection ‘Schema/Stasis’ in 2017. His latest poetry pamphlet ‘Café Kaput!’ was published by Broken Sleep Books in 2020.
(**the Wellington Street Review, the New River Press Yearbook, SPAMzine, Re-Side Magazine, -algia Press, Scab Mag, Pink Plastic House Journal, Lucky Pierre Zine, Poetry Bus, Neuro Logical Magazine and the Babel Tower Notice Board) 

Poem by Barney Ashton-Bullock : L’anti-arriviste est parti

L’anti-arriviste est parti

Even within the abhorrence of absence
is a marked aberrance of pulsing joy;
we are left conveyancing the wounds –

We are abeyant to their melodic seep;
your intuit repertoire of counter-hex,
your quasi-bittersweet loll of lyrical intrigue –

Here, a sallow heart inflates with hope,
there, a hollow mind tolls in outreach;
we are all but trough-laden, sod-bound arrivistes,

Cusping it, winging it, drowning in it someday,
therein be the tragedy, the mystery, the mirth;
the orientation is the destination –

For when, to a sailor, the sea is as mildew in motion,
its wonderment worn to slicken sick liqueform veldts ,
its waves puckering in indigest, vomiting for revolution –

For when, to that sailor, the ambics of trussing waves
testify in their throt of malaise; their unchewed tether
of gruelly variegations lap ‘round slung, trash-forms a-ripple –

Pollutant detritus, deleterious of such seafarers’ safety;
sizes serried from swirling particulate to the lumpen, sunken,
dumped ‘white goods’ sea-bed bedrocks of corrosive causticities –

We, shoreline blind to this immersed bind of junk cluster,
ever await for a hallowed sunset, imbuing it with miracle,
with the cure, the penance, the forgiveness; a prophecy –

Just as you soothsay sang it, mister;
residuous and resonant,
in shalom and amen.

Poem from Avalanches in Poetry Writings & Art inspired by Leonard Cohen (2019)by Barney Ashton-Bullock “Yet”

Meet the Fevers of the Mind WolfPack: Barney Ashton-Bullock