Aimée Keeble

 

 

henry john lintott 

I, I, I, the millennium’s baby,
That stinking beauty who crunches down hearts like candy
I laugh with each push burn of knuckles and open my throat to grey sky
Because that is all I deserve
A song a spell a draught for sleep a darkness stupidly spilling
Close      your        mouth
I’ll die alone, as the lions do, my mouth a bloody red
And brave-
Churning earth as I writhe, silently quiet and ready
There was a skyline once- that felt perfect and the light that crept behind it golden
Like the soul of my mama
And a memory of horses,
Bones and damp grass
Sometimes I stand at the lip of water and feel for the pulse in my neck
There’s a little beat that hits me hard and says:
You have left all those you love
Whisper soft goes the waves, scum spray secret,
I am dizzy with loss,
Awake and bright because, because.

 

 

 

 

Born in London and raised in America, Aimée Keeble has been writing short stories and poems since she was a child. Her work has been published by the Lighthouse Journal, Forward Poetry, Southlight, The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Oh Comely, Scalawag, John Mason, and ink, sweat and tears.  She has exhibited her work at Flint Gallery in Norwich, theprintspace in London, and the Superette Gallery in Paris as a part of Never Turn Back, a photographic project headed by Dean Chalkley. The two have collaborated on a publication titled One which focuses on the idea of subculture and is available through Antenne Books. Aimée is currently completing the MLitt. in Creative Writing from the University of Glasgow. She is the grand-niece of Beat writer and poet Alexander Trocchi.

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Aimée Keeble

 

 
Arthur and Merlin’s Cave

Rain sick,
Bound by the small hours-
He is fading
Walks through the moors,
Past the hard ponies,
Their hair lumpy with burs and their noses raw with nettle rash
The sheep skitter like a dropped bag of pellets
As he goes
He pulls at the earth,
Tearing lengths of green and brown
In his tired hands and the dirt
Stains him cleaner
Things to build a prayer with,
Maybe,
Mud is a good filler
Nothing but sharp toothed patience
And hungry time
To battle his thundering heart
The rain bends his back with watery fingers
And the cave sticks its shadow tongue at him
As he breaks through the gloom
Into the hollow dry
“You forgot to teach me about love”
He cries into the space of endless all
And waits for a reply,
Knowing that to ask is to answer

 

 

Aimée Keeble‘s work has been published by the Lighthouse Journal, Forward Poetry, and ink, sweat and tears.  She has exhibited her work at Flint Gallery in Norwich, theprintspace in London, and the Supertte Gallery in Paris as a part of Never Turn Back, a photographic project headed by Dean Chalkley. The two have collaborated on a publication titled One which focuses on the idea of subculture and is available through Antenne Books. Aimée is currently the assistant editor and journalist for FreightEurasia magazine. She is the grand-niece of beat writer and poet Alexander Trocchi.

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Aimée Keeble

 

 

1

Here is the subversive heart:
Through which rebel blood rolls in secret passages
Dark is the meat, opaque and shiny as a horse’s eye
Bones fine and curved as tusks steeple a cage for it,
Under sediment of the water of you
Here are the nobs, the joints, the blades that arch like fins,
The guts like a sack of jewels,
Coiling spine as creeping as a tendril of white ivy,
The knees, the femurs, the pelvis,
Marrow filled machinery the colour of old stones that makes you walk so-
Why not pretend we are little planets of flesh with cores of white hot soul
Like avocado stones
Galactic would the movement between us be, unencumbered by thought
As rock is impassive when it’s smashed into;
It delights in scattering pieces of itself with a feeling of
Unbound elementary,
I would degenerate with you-
Shrink my frame as a wizard puddles to nothing with a bang
Legless and sticky and thin skinned
A see through stained glass body through which all is visible
Little pebble hearts quickening in our swampy chests
O’ come with me to the water now,
(I would drown with you too)
Basic tongues for tasting elements not words-
Tadpole delicate would we slip without breath
Dissolve as stars do in morning
Here are the atoms unaligned:
Without mystery, without anger
Like the calm indifference of the soul of salt.

 

 

 

 

Aimée Keeble was born in London but raised in America. Once graduating from high school, she moved back to London to pursue a career as an actress. She has been writing short stories and poems since she was a child. Her work has been recently published by the Lighthouse journal,Forward Poetry, and ink, sweat and tears. Her greatest inspiration has been her great uncle Alexander Trocchi, a beat writer who produced a handful of novels and began a prose and poetry publication called Merlin. She hopes to follow in his footsteps and have a literary publication of her own one day.

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Aimée Keeble

 

 

 

North Dakota

O’ this sky of denim blue-
Like a cowboy’s thighs
And the river water wrinkled like old skin,
All alone sit I on the brown horse,
Remembering-
That fences can be kicked down
And soul isn’t made for staying

 

 

 

Aimée Keeble was born in London but raised in America. Once graduating from high school, she moved back to London to pursue a career as an actress. She has been writing short stories and poems since she was a child. Her work has been recently published by the Lighthouse journal,Forward Poetry, and ink, sweat and tears. Her greatest inspiration has been her great uncle Alexander Trocchi, a beat writer who produced a handful of novels and began a prose and poetry publication called Merlin. She hopes to follow in his footsteps and have a literary publication of her own one day.

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Aimée Keeble

 

 

 

Central Florida

 

It is only a few acres

Sun choked and thirsty grass

 

Our house is scab brown, flaky

Pickup truck red offsets the dirt like a fresh heart

 

We made a deal to live our lives in slower motion

To pack our thoughts away in beer coolers to freeze

 

Dusk comes and we move as if underwater

Subterranean muscles have we

 

Sundays are for God

The rest of the week are for America

 

We keep our blessings in a box in the gun cabinet

Shiny and hard like so many bullets

 

 

 

 

Aimée Keeble was born in London but raised in America. Once graduating from high school, she moved back to London to pursue a career as an actress. She has been writing short stories and poems since she was a child. Her work has been recently published by the Lighthouse journal. Her greatest inspiration has been her great uncle Alexander Trocchi, a beat writer who produced a handful of novels and began a prose and poetry publication called Merlin, before he died. She hopes to follow in his footsteps and have a literary publication of her own one day.

Read More