Ho trovato questo manoscritto nella immensa biblioteca che Nat Scammacca ha accumulato negli anni della sua attività,  pubblico uno stralcio sintetico di questa raccolta da me digitalizzata.




When I scream down and into this machine It grins back

Multiple hammers flailing at me

As my words spitting out Cries

straining among muted steel Can

feelings be stapped down

As immutable punch press tattoos


The famous people at the Poetry address

Laughed cogently behind their hands

At my little messes of paper and raw script

They say “He should have written this as a sonnet”

And “This doesn’t even make sense”

Later as they sipped their raw umber coffee

And easily slipped a rejection notice into my SSAE

They took out another manila packet from the mail drop Saying

“listen to this’, listen to this’.” As the laughs come again


Diaphonous notes

Played on an unseen accordian

Seem to murmur responses

In ones heartchords

Like passing candlewicks

The flowing of ignited streamtrails

Regales the forms of loves passage

Shadows and silhouette snippings

Gush through straggards and

Empty throated bottles

Do the new-sounds hollow your name

Branches can be broken off

Even in whispers

Dutchesses wish on the morrow

Where noonday sorrows are yet purer

Did yesterdays kisses remain pursed.

Or do we cut them off

By daring to tell of them

Is our merest thought enough

To banish them from becoming

As orchids blanch at our touch

No matter how faint

We beseech you now and forever

As love’s requitted liquid paint

Dries on the lips

Peter Layt

White hot coals

Lolling in shallow pools

Fire and ice piranha

Blank expressionless needle eyes

Following your shadow

Obliquely scanning the surface

With surgical precision

New patterns running now

Through a primitive brain

Electrical charged memory

Like a digital watch movements

Dimly recollecting the pleasures

Of meeting sinew and bone

Juntas hastily arranged

When the unwary tried short cuts

Peter Layton

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