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poetry issues #15

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Wednesday, 01 November 2017

 

Since the previous issue was all free verse, there's a fair share of formality in this one: "Retribution" is a pantoum (which happens to be one of my favorite forms), "Northern Beach in Bref Double" a bref double of course, and "Coming at the Florist" a golden shovel. Poetry Issues #15, out today:

 

Retribution

 

Memory should not be exercised.

Like a packet of quit smokes

it better remain undisturbed

in a locked box in the closet.

 

Like a packet of quit smokes

I hide your grayscale picture

in a locked box in the closet

in all-encompassing silence.

 

I hide your grayscale picture

mummified and fossilised

in all-encompassing silence

like an angry ancient god.

 

Mummified and fossilised

you better remain undisturbed

like an angry ancient god.

Memory should not be exercised.

 

 

 

Northern Beach in Bref Double

 

They arrived at the haven of bronze sun gods

and said: “We want five ships of fine sand.”

The pale seafarers got nasty sunburns but

were back home in time for the Indian summer.

 

They strewed it wavy, golden and silvery and

the children combed it by hand for better shells.

Even the fish came out of the sea to check it

when the workers headed home for hot supper.

 

Once, a lion’s mane jellyfish fell for a seagull

who was cruising the shore for leftovers at

a crowded spot. Before she died dehydrated

they both agreed the sea was their mother.

 

The children relished at the beast’s bad end

but a sudden limp burdened the seagull’s strut.



 

B Sides

 

Inside red apples fat worms inside the letterbox

a rageful cat inside dreams spiraling labyrinths

inside a struggling dignity marginalization inside

a deep-chest scream confinement inside unvarnished

sentences run-down desires inside the doll another

doll inside delusion the need to escape inside.

 

 

 

Sociology or That’s How You Rule the World

 

Your affordances will be reduced to one

as ecology will variate between

plastic A and concrete B.

 

As long as you let them engage with

stable fables peasants will trust

that one day they’ll be kings.

 

Turn sacred symbols into commodities

rob the fruits of their juicy essence

but give the natives beads.

 

 

 

Coming at the Florist

 

The iron door was left open by nobody

and the black cat assured me it had not

been her. Had I sniffed in the shop even

the slightest trace of evening rose, the

doubts would’ve dispersed. With such rain

it was hard to tell. But only my woman has

this sweet marmite blood that shoots such

piercing scents of love through the small

pores of her sweaty, rosy, cosy hands.

 

 

 [If you would like to to learn more about this project, read this.]

 

 

 
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