<\/p>\n
I\u2019ve Planted Poems Everywhere<\/strong><\/p>\n Don’t move. This house is a booby-trap Under the bath, a poem ticks down to zero, This tin has a poem of sweaty gelegnite You’ll pull the pin from this poem by accident, And when I come home, They are poems about the clawing of life out of death. I swear if this house falls below fifty poems an hour it’s gonna blow.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Paul Ebbs<\/strong> is the author of\u00a0\u00a0 books for children (under a pseudonym) and\u00a0 screenplays for television. He has written episodes of Casualty, The Bill, EastEnders<\/em> and Doctors<\/em>. He\u00a0 has written comedy for Radio 4 and Doctor Who<\/em> fiction for the BBC and other media. His poetry is concerned with sex mostly, relationships occasionally, death nearly, and sometimes wildlife gets a look in. His poetry will be included in an upcoming issue of Neon Literary Magazine<\/em>. By the time you read this he will have read at Velvet Tongue in London, The Village Green Festival in Essex and anywhere else that will have him basically. You can follow him on Twitter @PaulEbbs where he doesn’t tweet about poetry but mainly just swears at the government.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" I\u2019ve Planted Poems Everywhere Don’t move. This house is a booby-trap I’ve written in tilt-switches under the salty plaster, typed them into the dark between floorboards and have pulled a razor tripwire from this pen. Thin inklines of gunpowder crisscross the carpet. Under the bath, a poem ticks down to zero, it’s full of […]<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":4,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_et_pb_use_builder":"","_et_pb_old_content":"","_et_gb_content_width":"","footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-6232","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","hentry","category-prose-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6232","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/4"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=6232"}],"version-history":[{"count":1,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6232\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":6233,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/6232\/revisions\/6233"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=6232"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=6232"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/inksweatandtears.co.uk\/archive\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=6232"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}
\nI’ve written in tilt-switches under the salty plaster,
\ntyped them into the dark between floorboards
\nand have pulled a razor tripwire from this pen.
\nThin inklines of gunpowder crisscross the carpet.<\/p>\n
\nit’s full of frustrated TNT and its’ Mickey Mouse Timer
\nkeeps slipping on a rusty spring.
\nIf it goes off there, you’ll be left breathless and watershocked
\nYou’ll stumble from the bathroom spattered with liquid soap;
\nwords sliding damp cordite into your nostrils.<\/p>\n
\nperspiring in the hot dark of the oven.
\nYou can smell it cooking if you get your nose close enough to the page.
\nIf it goes off there’s going to be a plume of dead recipes
\nfluttering down like shot birds.
\nThe windows will melt like scalding cheese.
\nYour kitchen will be a funeral for food.<\/p>\n
\nand it’ll go off in your face. The words will be sharpnel
\nand you’ll shell-shock your way into the street screaming.
\nI lashed it to the bedpost especially to get you while you slept.It
\nIt got tangled to your hair and it’s waiting for you to roll over.<\/p>\n
\nbe careful how you pull down the zip of my coat
\nand unbutton the strained cloth front of my shirt.
\nSuicide poems are pocketed in a vest primed to explode
\nwhen I recite my terrorist prayer about God, loving life,
\nriding eagles into heaven.<\/p>\n
\nThey are filled with the bolts and glass and screws
\nof the bits of this house we’ve dismantled.<\/p>\n