As the light goes out, she always slips
her hand round his wrist, rubs the bumps
left by the watch-strap like a soft braille –
and he sleeps at once to the zen of the rain,
dreams of empty grandstands, the slide
of black Cobras at Club, the perfect curves and the blur,
and she too slides while the rain thumps,
slides and sinks, and surfaces again;
and every move throughout the night
is choreographed by habit, so they wake
always exactly the same, coiled into shape and caught
by a big wet sun that comes to lick the pane.
Annette Volfing is an academic teaching medieval German literature. She is originally from Denmark. She has recently had poems accepted by The Interpreter’s House, Smiths Knoll, The Oxford Magazine, Snakeskin and NeonRead More
The ghostly sap in lumber warps it just to keep us humble. We talk about a beeline knowing the overloaded bee wobbles on her way home. Bureaucrats long for trees with unserrrated rectangular leaves—little green chits for infinitesimal amounts of shade. Some of them would put zippers down the back of an angel’s shimmering garment, even though it never needs to be sent to the dry cleaner. They’d send it anyway. Mondrian dreamed of the caves at Lascaux and wept in his sleep. Ex-cons cry out to Euclid but never manage to go straight. It’s hopeless. And no matter what we do, the shortest distance between two hearts is so convoluted no one ever gets there.
Don Thompson has been publishing since the early sixties, including a half dozen or so books and chapbooks. Most recently, Pinyon Publishing released Everything Barren Will Be Blessed a few months ago.
The Air is Blind with Cities
The air is blind with cities.
I see sparks of meat, scattered
like body’s of rain, with tiny voices.
I see starving faces, bluer than hills
of sand, of perfectly formed deserts.
The hunger is calm, like pictures of
water, of kissing wells,
but what of the sea
rising and the fire seeing and seeing?
There is the God of kitchens, the seer
of poverty, the prophet of night,
rushing through the streets in clouds of music
like a broken spring, tenderly restored.
Austin McCarron‘s poems have appeared in numerous magazines such as Snakeskin, Van Gogh’s Ear, Camel Saloon and others. He lives in London.
Next you’ll be saying the effect
of rain-flow on a house is our own
fluidity, those unheard percolations.
But the old gods weren’t stupid.
If my body’s a temple or whatever,
no light at the door reaches the relics.
The new shit makes martyrs of us all.
At the alarm, as your struthious
lashes kick in sleep, swatting in vain
at another girl’s name on my arm,
it’s all I can do not to reach out
for the nail-scissors and bring you
back among mortals, where no one
really wants to hear about your dream.
When you crawled in from another
graveyard at the coalface and mentioned
Bin Laden died, the name rang a bell,
but I couldn’t think what. I assumed
you’d take care of it. If you died,
I’d annoy everybody with my grief.
You’d be like the love of my life.
JT Welsch lectures in creative writing and literature at York St John University. His poems have appeared in Boston Review, Stand, Manchester Review, Cake, and the pamphlets, Orchids (Salt 2010), Orchestra & Chorus (Holdfire 2012), and Waterloo (Like This 2012).Read More
crossing towers of tall apartment blocks
[Jumping roof to roof like the Hulk]
a shallow flow of sewage beneath my shoes
[I am Superman]
work around the corner
Monday morning, 7.05 am.
all quiet, except for dog walkers
[Bank robbers and I am Batman]
chatting Pooch talk, until the highway
where policemen laugh about girls they’ve had
[I am exotic]
and traffic sings cockerel city songs
[One day I’ll be famous]
and I’ll be awake
once I’ve had my coffee.
Jack Little (b.1987) lives in Mexico City where he founded and edits The Ofi Press. In March 2012 he read at the Linares International Literary Festival in Nuevo Leon, Mexico. He also manages the national Mexico cricket team.Read More
First I fell from a window and thought
I’d never reach the ground.
A door opened in the fog.
Once inside I closed my eyes and tried to imagine
what it feels like to be dead.
Somehow when I found myself walking the steppe
it wasn’t like opening my eyes. More that
I was slowly woken from the frost
by heavy blinking.
This is when the wind started speaking.
The sky hung like the giant keyhole of a vacant door . I remember
a violet canopy above, an alien shade, a tincture. I remember
women in hospital beds, and coughing. I remember
clicks of antiseptic dispensers, a bedside view over a fuming city.
It’s possible that I remember so that
I don’t lose the language of the dead.
Chris Sakellaridis is an Anglo-Greek poet and teacher of English. His poems have appeared in Fuselit, Cyphers and The Delinquent. He is currently working on a debut collection entitled Ξένον/Xenon, an exploration of hybridity, chemistry and foreignness.Read More
Up the Block
a backhoe has cut
the hours in half
for three days
windows have fallen
doors been split
by the rumbling thunder
from a neighbour’s lot
I drive the machine
across the computer
and renovate my brain
Joanna M. Weston has had poetry, reviews, and short stories published in anthologies and journals for twenty-five years. Her poetry, A Summer Father, is published by Frontenac House of Calgary. She blogs here.