Foy Timms is a poet/writer/photographer based in Reading, Berkshire, U.K. Her work has been published or is forthcoming in Abridged, Briefly Write, Dust Poetry, Fevers Of The Mind Poetry Digest, Hypnopomp, Merak Magazine, North of Oxford, Peeking Cat Poetry, Pulp Poets Press, Sage Cigarettes, Selcouth Station Press, Small Leaf Press, Tealight Press and Twist in Time, among others. She is preoccupied with themes such as displacement, marginal characters, fleeting encounters, British towns/villages, social exclusion and the sociopolitical dimensions of living spaces.
Prising a Hibernation from beneath a Winter Coat
Icepicking his hibernation from monopolies beyond himself,
he offers his survival to the frost-encrusted park.
A survival stretching itself across frostbitten hands
into distant towns.
He shakes wardrobes of her pale history onto the jagged prescience
in smithereens of memory.
Her pale yet furious history settles against his worn frame.
The moon is stapled to the night sky.
He is lying carefully across each memory.
Salvaging a winter of tenderness
before the street shrinks.
Her face perpetually recurring.
When apparitions of touch escape thinly onto tomorrow
My Night as a Scar on your Chin
I abandon my belongings on your chest,
to climb your craggy chin-cliff,
my arms tenacious in their endeavour.
I clasp your jutting jawline,
my urchin limbs pulling upwards.
I lie unpacked on your face,
reclining and rolling over,
decadent in blistering heat,
nearing your mouth and its disasters within.
I retreat from your ruinous voice haunts,
leaving a scar as I descend.
Curtain House Wounds
At the bottom of these eyes, there is a quiet stirring
as streets wake up and mornings fall abruptly between us.
We were prising open a memory
with the blunt scissors of noon,
when our lone child leapt from these arms
across a season’s unfaithfulness,
introducing a silence heavier than bone.
Running onto midnight’s porch
where passions scribble themselves
and nervous guests
by goading the clock,
hanging their thoughts on coat stands
and dancing on the wisdom of wounds.
Folding the Night into a Black Cab
Collapsed across a taxi’s heart,
we inhabit a burgeoning blizzard of hands.
Inside tomorrow, we forge a wilderness,
A patchwork wilderness
where cavernous brutal needs visit us indefinitely.
The damp chatter of dusk nudges our weekdays awake
but in this moment, we derive warmth from a taxi’s heart,
Invert ourselves alive,
Allow the windows to be sorrow proof for the briefest time,
When I said marry me for tonight alone.
photos by Foy Timms