Martin Fisher



It was a dinner party.
My white jeans were never going to cope.

Titans and Countesses
stung—
the delivery guy wore a peaked hat,
a symbol.

Closed-eye dreams of chocolate,
organs and choral chords.
The cabbages in the conservatory
danced;
louche behaviour from cucumbers.

When I awoke
I could see Morocco out of one eye:

Pedro pedalling furiously
through rococo splendour,
queens nodding their agreement.

A second prize—
his body language swearing
like a docker with hemorrhoids.

What was I thinking?

I looked
like a fat ghost
in my white boat shoes
and white linen shirt,

a Paco Rabanne cloud
and about as visible as fog.

I spent the evening
trying to avoid myself.




Martin Fisher has worked across Africa and Europe and now lives in the UK, where he gardens for a living. His poems have appeared in The Astorian, Ink Sweat & Tears, JMWW, ANTAE, Red Ogre Review, and other journals.