Four Poems by Robbie Bailey-Caulfield

Three Odes: 1


As we have before

So through again we

Pastiche suckling babe

Warm supple-buttocked

Pass night on sleep

Amongst latex crackling


Our apple-papped máta

Offer ourselves up ourselves

Desperate would-that-this-had-meaning


Juvenile pederastic barter

‘Render yourself to me’:


It says, or farts (this single

Functionality between us

That doesn’t dissemble

Or require preparation

Or even actually happen)

One and twenty months


Obsession undone in single

Second profound articulation

Arguably we know more of

One another by this

Non-event than eternities’

Reciprocity through bookish information.



Three Odes: 2


You try not to choke on the bile

That you baste yourself with, apodictic sublimity:

Hope I not perforate recto as

Fits better together just so,

Matching up with jagged edge

Of a pun you made everyday

Instead of voting, feasible

Token and promiscuity

Pan-out, running or

Set ablaze within certainty,

Copying this line that you wrote

When you wrote your genitals

Hermeneutically, and I

Translated literally without still

Understanding what it did for you

And what that meant. I’ll

Always stop pressing

A paper-thin sheet of tin

Etching this to obliteration.



Three Odes: 3


It’s me clotting. I want to be real

Or filter out the grease

Blotching eye continuing

To cook skin with burning

Oil oh long after dried sudden

As doubt nails me to existing.


Living comfortably inside the

Long eighteenth century

Of Jeremy Hunt’s large intestine,

Draining an ‘unsafe and unsustainable’

3.65 billion from the anal cavity

That dry-cleans racketeering.


How I thought it would help,

But it caught you regardless

And I was then too ill to

Fetch you the medicine we

Both were dying for. An

Entirely unreliable ethnography


Acting as a prehistory tracing

Linear progress to the single

Moment in time which suspends

The scene of expression; nervous

Demarcation helps language achieve

Poetic disposition like people


Who now are living so surely

Inchoate they can hang their hats

On abstraction, leaking milk from the bone

On warm days that I drink

With herculean thirst, always

Re-writing life pruriently.





On anal mucus



Spilling seed and

Sonic movings –


Sieving undigested

Fat from gut:

Congeal slippery tongue;

Cold air flakes

Crusted cream on

Upper lip.




Seed flaking

Cold chokings


Undigested language

By slippery anal crumblings

To juicy, pregnant gut.



Robbie Bailey-Caulfield is a poet studying in Brighton.



Image credit: Forest and Kim Starr

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