Some Rejections

I recently submitted some poems to Magma for their clothes-themed 56th issue. I must admit, I was rather miffed to get the inevitable rejection, at least until the dim apprehension that my ability to send off the very, very poorest of my work for consideration had struck again, and it would probably have been worse for such embarrassing stuff appear in print under my name.
Naturally, then, there is only one thing to do: post the poems here instead. Two of them, anyway. The third one is another sartorial confection I created specifically in the hope of getting into this issue - a not-so magic bullet, I suppose. Judge for yourself whether I should have included that one....

Iron

This is the steamboat that sails the lake flat;

this is Time’s arrow, forced to point back

to the shop and the promise. This the

implement we take to new skins, this is our everyday cosmetic surgery -  where do the creases go this pallet knife scrapes over the edge?

  

The Between-Coat The zip is stuck. It’s stopped doing up and the teeth behind it have peeled apart leaving my coat as its spreading wake. It hangs on me dead with mouth open. What if there’s no way to get out of this in private or public? I’ll pin on the looks. Inhabit the halves that no longer fit. It will be the spectacular frill I raise to terrify, my flying-fox cape as I swoop tree to tree, clerical robes of a surely absurd religion, and garbed in the moment of transition I will observe people in seams, unknitting.

Letter to the Editor, Scarf Enclosed

Sir, a certain haruspicy is possible

with all the ties, scarves and socks

we have received as gifts but never worn.

I have pulled mine from the drawers  like viscera

and, observing this heapof misbegotten largesse on the floor

seen rivers, seen motorways – maybe characters –

seen definitely, all of the train and criss-crossing

car routes that bring them to me

on Christmases, Birthdays, and other miscellaneous gatherings,

seen the bonds of a lifetime of inlawship and polite acquaintance.

             Sir, one cannot help but prognosticate

with all of this evidence before one

what a mess polite acquaintance will make.