Tuesday, June 11, 2019

A.J. Huffman - Three Poems

Justification

after Forms, Hatchets  by Magyari, John the Younger

One stroke
      obliterates two things
creates a third.

Can we call it harmony?

We shade it gold, give it value
cherish it,
label it
worthy
 but hone its edges
to cut its own throat,

drip

red

life.

Can that equation ever equal anything
as soft as pink?

Sky and birds fly,
land
on houses built of sand.  Temporary tragedies.

Axes obliterate forests
erect
permanent shelter for humans that offer
occasional cages
for wayward wings.
This we call reprieve.


***

Sweeter than the Desert’s First Rainfall

The snake slithered into her.  I assumed
I would sleep until the next morning—
didn’t work out that way.  It was not yet warm
outside, but ridiculously hot inside.
Perhaps the effect was from the stress of a new place.
For the first time, unbreathing skin revolted.  
In the feverish concentration, human ovens transform
into something bulged, and accused
me with their stares:  Someone burns the world.

It was the same nightmare [about the skeleton shroud].

***

Stuck Stuttering [In Silence]

The peacock feathers on my finger
nails look
    all glitter-glowy.  Moons
alighted, they spark.  The pen
spears the page.  Are they the prophesied third
eyes of legend?  Or the collective channel
through which the muse now chants?  My wonder
leads to worry.  Twitching,
I pick at their petals.  Peeling, they pit,
split, crack.  They are/I am ruined
by the minutia of such
a misguided thought.

Monday, May 20, 2019

Robert Masterson - The Last Words of Johnny “The Cannibal” Tarlington

The Last Words of Johnny “The Cannibal” Tarlington

Transcribed in an accurate fashion under the most difficult of circumstances…
By Robert Masterson



…while the Wrestler himself, delirious, sometimes falling into unconsciousness from which he could not be roused, or wildly thrashing and screaming gibberish, trying to break free from those in the dressing room called upon to help restrain the dying Cannibal…trainers, towel boys, photo-bugs, locker room freaks…and at times attempting to do them harm, mistaking them for the visions with which he was tortured…

Is this the shiny part? Is it? Is it shiny? Oh. I love the shiny part…yeah…yeah…uh huh…uh huh…nu uh…Higher! Climb higher! Are you afraid of heights or something? Get up there. Get all the way up there…I saw them first, I got them first ha ha ha ha…Fucking Olympics and fuck the fucker fucking Olympics and Greco-Roman shit fuckers, too…I never took it, Mom. I swear to you, and I know you’ll never believe me, but I didn’t take it. I wouldn’t take it. Not ever, Mom, not ever…Two dogs is good, one dog is bad. Two dogs will play. One dog goes crazy. Three dogs, three dogs, three dogs…Okay, this one is for all the marbles, folks, this one is for the belt, the $1 trillion billion million dollar purse, and super-hot sexy girl valet Fawn!...Which one of these crazed maniacs will take home the glory and gold? Which one of these psycho-killers will become the King of the Ring?...SUNDAY…PAY-PER-VIEW…SUNDAY…PAY-PER-VIEW…$1 zillion stillion fillion skillion means $1 zero, zero, zero, nothing…it means it means no thing…It means you fight, little man. You fight. You want to eat? You fight...Oh, the shiny part…Times ten, I could. You and nine little fuckers that look just like you. I’ll knock each one of you out ten times, you little fucker… Like a million candles, all those flashbulbs on all those little cameras in all those little seats…MY house! MY car! MY woman!...By the lake at night, the sky twice. In the sky. Yeah. In the water. Yeah. Twice. Sky. Water. Sky. Water…There was a wonder, a wonderful, a wonder wonder wonder…And I will DRAG you out into the motherfucking street and I will KILL you and I will FUCK YOUR DEAD BODY IN THE MOTHERFUCKING STREET YOU MISERABLE MOTHERFUCKER…Sign it. Sign it. Sign it. Sign. It...Olympic Gold! The Impossible Kid with the impossible dream and you can see the tears in his eyes as the band plays the United States national anthem…What a story! What an athlete! What a kid!...Olympic Gold!...Gold!...Go!...Guh!...Pay-per-view, man, pay-per-view…Pay. Every time. Pay. Every time. Pay…Fucking don’t know who I am? Fucking don’t know who I am? I am the fucking Cannibal, man, the real fucking Cannibal, and I will fucking eat you. Ha. Ha. Only kidding…Uh huh. Uh huh. Nu uh. Nu uh.

Monday, May 13, 2019

Bruce McRae - Four Poems

Bruce McRae, a Canadian musician currently residing on Salt Spring Island BC, is a multiple Pushcart nominee with over 1,400 poems published internationally in magazines such as Poetry, Rattle and the North American Review. His books are ‘The So-Called Sonnets (Silenced Press), ‘An Unbecoming Fit Of Frenzy’ (Cawing Crow Press) and ‘Like As If” (Pski’s Porch), Hearsay (The Poet’s Haven).

***
1. Long Distance Love
Stars like question marks
after earnest enquiry.
Stars like asterisks
signifying lack.
Campfires of the Gauls.
The undead’s lanterns.


Goodbye Sol and Ganymede.
Goodbye Luna, the stars
winking provocatively.
Stars like kisses.
The Xs a lost love
sent to me at the end
of her last long letter.


***

2. Going Down To The Sea

A very angry water,
miffed over some perceived slight.
A change in character,
the water made mad and out of its senses.
So I’m going down to the beach
to shout at the waves,
shouting songs and sermons and psalms.


I’m reciting a poem to calm the sea,
assuring the drowned
of safe passage and eternal rest.
I’m telling the tide to turn,
to return to the storm’s source
and take with it the souls of those damned.
The souls of swimmers gone under.
Their feint cries like tender kisses.

***
3. 
Off The Record

Not now, I’m listening
to the rain’s confession.
Told in confidence
one November morning.
Spoken in whispers and gasps,
the rain’s secret life,
its untold story.


Sweeping leaves after the storm,
the rain took me aside,
wringing its blue hands,
eyes sparkling with tears.
The rain confided in me.


But what can you say?
How does one reply?
Clouds hushed and gathering,
as if something were on their minds.
As if they too
had secrets to spill
over the blackened horizon.

***

4. Permanent Solution

I was half way to the pavement
when I changed my mind.
After leaping from the bridge
I took a moment to mull it over,
my decision perhaps too hasty,
gravity a son of a gun.


Speaking of which, my itchy trigger-finger,
the difference between brain and mind.

And how I wished my doubt had lingered.

Monday, May 6, 2019

Lawrence Upton - Song: In formation Nutrition (2 voice)


ADMITTED AMUSERS WHIPLIKE
EFFECT FOUL HATLESS
ADMITTED MAKEUP WHIRLIES
ASTUTE FLESH SHELF
ADMITTED MUSHIER WASPLIKE
CHEAT FLUFF TOELESS
ADMITTED SMASHUP WIRELIKE
CHOSE LEAFLET STUFF
ADMITTER ASSUMED WHIPLIKE
CASSETTE FLUFF HOLE
FEEL SHUTOFF
ADMITTER IMPULSED WEAKISH
ETHOS FLUFF THOSE
ADMITTERS AMUSED
CHALET EFFUSES LOFT
ADMITTERS LIKE WHIPS
CHUTES FLEET OFFAL
ADULTERATE SKIMP WHIMSIED
CLEFT EASEL SHUTOFF
AIRSHIPS MILKWEED MUTATED
AFFECT
AMATEURISH SKIMPED WILTED
FLESHES LOUT
AFFECT
FULLEST SHOE
PIKED AMATEURISM WHISTLED
COAL FLUFFS
AMPLITUDE DIAMETER WHISKS
COLA FLUFFS HUFFLE
DREAMT WHISKIES
ALOFT FETCHES FUELS
MISDATE WHISKER
CHUFF EEL FALSETTOS
MISTAKER WISHED
SKATER WHIMSIED
EFFECT FLASHES LOUT
SMARTIE WHISKED
CHEESES FLUFF TOTAL
STREAK WHIMSIED
CASTLE FLUSH TOFFEE
DIAMETER WHISK
CHAFE
ACHE FLUFFS FULLEST OFFSET
CHUFF LEAFLESS TOTE
AFOUL CHEFS FETTLES ALE CHESTFUL


ALOE SCUFFLE THEFTS ALOFT
EFFUSES LETCH
FACET FLESH FOULEST
ATHLETE FUEL SCOFFS HUSTLES TOFFEE
CHUTES LEAFLET OFF
CASTOFF FLUTE HEELS
COAT FLEET SHUFFLES
FULL SEETHE
CHAFF FEELS OUTLETS
CHAFF FLEES OUTLETS
CLOSET FATE SHUFFLE
COFFEES FLAT SLEUTH
OCTET SAFE




Thursday, May 2, 2019

Selene Charalambos - Bedtime Feelings

Bedtime feelings:
- freezing
- disorientation
- knowing
- quaint
- scintillating
- flippant
- onerous
- ajar
- uppity
- inward
- verdant
- irate
- towering
- melting
- ossified
- humdrum
- else

Monday, April 29, 2019

Vernon Frazer - Three Poems

***
1. A History as Processed



a spank vacancy 
after valediction rumors
vale past
               polygon advisors

     the throwback
     stamping a sinecure
              for

  curb              baffling reflexes
 mope             preparing delusion
               to
    a noon carapace

                *

velvet rookie reprobate clones rut

     redeeming the thoraxes
     a decimated vegetation panorama

               appealed
               the dialectics

when a hard pedal endorsement
tailgates retread verbatim artiste

                         no flame-thrower regatta
                         to oil its enrollment radar

                *

when velvet clods
reprimand simulation ecology
a maximum synthetic

                 idiom stopwatch flies 
                 diagonal seam technologies
                             no reciprocity

        vegan wrappers refute         oiling
        eastward chili                        the
               pang                    anterior enmities
        embankment
                                    breaking

                         among baffling reflexes




***
2. Live from the Rally



icon viewer
with cultural firearm 
                  lowered

bartered 
the slipcover grammarian   

     a sly simulacrum 
     vaunted as pencilled bromide

          the empty outplay
          to a well-bent lecturer
          steaming frequency

                   from every supplicant

                     *

the latrines failed
the drive-in lumberjack

          a madwoman rummaging

     every futon                        shore’s habitat
     buttonholes bereft             a noose heater
                                  greeting   

     grater demagogues warming tragicomedies

                     *

the plated shading 
glimpsing past therm

     a radio faded starlet 
     unfolding current vigor forever 

                                    a worn decision
                        stolen
      sepulchral 
                                   ranking tumid
         a spectral reign

                       grows in the amphitheater




***

3. Too Stone to Move



motor fossils
undulate       a blimp trajectory
        surface bloom

caught looming on a lurid curve

     empty

              at every angle

                        *

phonographic filming therapy
sounds its view
                         to the unspoken wary

          measured
          against the pace of slow attack

revolving
               around a good year
                                                turning

back to wall
                    glyph
                             shouting 

              blind

                       from chiseled depths