Minefield, Afghanistan, 2008

      Mother, burn

Within our keep          urinous candles

Who dunked their digit
through the icing
on my birthday cake?

Who extinguished half
my candles, hijacked
my Jolly Good Fellow?

Flies turn their
     sucking   noses   up
at my fatted calves



Soak my lenses in formaldehyde

     Preserve me
     My facsimile





Language Games

The tip of the tongue is a butler

Six O’clock sickle drips with info
Trims collocations into forkfuls
Of palatable report

The tip of the tongue is a swindler

Flesh speaks without words
Displays its inner complexion
At the bullet’s ripping charge





[Adam Hampton is a poet and postgraduate student of Creative Writing at Edge Hill University. A former Royal Marines Commando, his work explores, amongst many other themes, global conflict, with an emphasis on literary innovation and concrete techniques. His poems have been published at the blogzine M58, in the magazines IKLEFTIKO and Three and a half point 9, and on the blog of Robert Sheppard, Pages. He resides in Southport with his wife and daughter.]


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