Category: Poetry

The day

when

all those new appliances

that you crave fight slaughter for

in those new homes

that you crave fight slaughter for

align & hum

at the same time

is when the madness will truly reign. 

Larry Kevinour

Thanatic magnetism impels

Now the head

Is crowded with extemporaneous fistfights

Knife attacks

Pint glass attacks

Demonstrations

Uprisings

Riots

What now what now but a bunch of innocents lined up against a wall and shot.

Thoughts, illuminating and tangible, are a mosaic composed of the most violent acts imaginable, a tapestry where the Lion is attacking the Madonna, where the rabbits and lambs are overwhelming the unicorn and removing the unicorn’s horn with broken bottles and smashed pint glasses.  

John Smith

Life never promised much… born

in a crack, raised in a cage of gargantuan construction,

tortured by a crew of sadistic gods

whose every casual step

could spell butchery… chased

with rolled newspaper and swatter… days

holed-up in the tv, the radio,

the washer, the dryer, the radiator, the drain;

nights hustling over floors and up walls,

flushed with total fear and garbage lust…

blind feelers wary of death from above

or oases of more trash to gorge,

but useless against the greasy poison…

now, as the petroleum distillate

clogs a last orifice,

I pray my children thrive

and spread the gospel of fear in tight places.

Willie Smith

I spat out a sea monster and the earth had to fight the sea monster for surely it was a sea monster lucent and iridescent and slimy a huge slug from the sea and the earth below my feet groaned and set to battle and it was a long battle the longest I had ever seen and when finally the earth swallowed up the sea monster the earth was bruised and battered the dust shot up all around me but it was not ferruginous it was silver gold platinum even and slowly it spread illuminating unfathomable creatures breathing moving with holes analogous to skeletal lions.  

Travis Lemonte

My body collects

boils

warts

cysts

carbuncles

abscesses

hemorrhaging scabs

sores

crabs

 lice

worms

the way you collect fucks Panini Cards birds trains words clothing books money gold dreams.

Lee Brookers

A howling wind/careens/ lifting skirts /unknotting ties /stealing cigarettes /molesting and mocking/ here between the edifices the last rays of day abuse. Dutch fires/Italian Devils/a menagerie dancing and frolicking/feral dogs/ “watch out for that glass.” Swirling skyscrapers /discord of being/ swirl. “Watch for falling icicles.” Barely through/ bleary eyes/ tested with perfume/ cigar smoke being swallowed/a huge aperture/ spewing/ blinding/braying laughter/a hint of music/the queue willingly swallowed. Dear Mr. Stieglitz, do we still study chiaroscuro?

Alvin Roubgonan

I believe in the gathering of rust

and in the accumulation of dust.

I believe in the boom, and the unpredictable bust;

in the tit, in the tat, even in Carol Doda’s bust;

in the greasiness of phrase and the word dislocated.

I believe in the misery of advertizing, the whitewash

of probability, the gouge of sell. I believe

in jack – the jackboot, the jackpot, the jack

me off. I firmly hold that nowhere is

anyone ever able to turn the rust, the dust, the bust,

the whole ecstatic pitfall off.

I believe, too, in shooting stars,

digging in spades their wink at the grave.

I should also like to take this opportunity

to re-affirm my faith in any bank

along whatever stream of the cess

and the cease of consciousness.

Willie Smith

Z is not for Zoo but ash dust carbon in the Zephyr. Z is not A. A is not for arsehole or asshole but for the beginning the start the open door the rictus Polo’s long journey the wonderous cave of Aladdin the glass shoe of Cinderella the bedroom of Molly. Z is for fodder the sacrificial lamb carrion. Z is the end of the line the last page the culdesac the last gasp death the obol.

Laurence Porat

The edges are adorned with embroidered bands ribbons stencilled fringes. Doves pigeons snakes lizards. Interlacings of curves and countercurves based on the fundamental shapes of the C and the S. Shells flowers fronds. The twin tines of the fork slip through the icing and sponge in the centre an artificial grotto with Minerva and not even a tine smacking a tooth can dull the spreading happiness sugar quickly turns to sweat the sweat clings to the eyelashes and coruscates like pearshaped stars I have spent four months locked in the Château de Silling.

Yuri Houseman-Montonte

A hand cupping a chin

two chins

three chins

a hand glued to the face

a face

feigned in profound contemplation

a face chiselled

sculptured

hidden in obfuscation

the cigarette

a stare into the unknowing

the face

this way

that way

the light

caressing

slapping

the soul within

without

don’t you just hate that with a passion.

You would never catch Marinetti doin’ the peacock.

Larry Kevinour