Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Celan ~ Martin Burke

New free eBook out on the Red Ceilings Press

Celan by Martin Burke

To see this and our complete catalogue of free eBooks and limited edition print chapbooks visit the Red Ceilings Press

Monday, November 26, 2012

Blinking Like Ferrets ~ Donal Mahoney



I've been too busy
the last two years to chat
with anyone in the office.
Today, however, I pause
at the pencil sharpener
while my co-workers
calculate and jot.
It makes no difference, you see,
if I remain silent until retirement
or if suddenly I start talking again.

All we must remember is
that we decay together,
that this charade
we give ourselves to
doesn't require that we speak,
that all we must do, really,
is calculate and jot.

If we calculate well,
if we jot well, the charade
will carry us through.
In the end, we'll see what is true
when blinking like ferrets
we emerge in sunlight,
gaping and gasping,
free of this maze created
by the family of man.



Donal Mahoney has had work published in The Red Ceilings and other print and electronic publications in North America, Europe, Asia and Africa.
Some of his earliest work can be found at http://booksonblog12.blogspot.com/

picnic dreamers ~ Iain Britton




here
                 birds

nest in the mouths of cats

the band rotunda

        which once housed a queen

is now occupied by a pastor

      spouting

              killer lines from revelations

a headache for locals         and tribal affiliates

      down from the hills

for a change of scenery


     here

       the city’s chopped-down ghosts

              of battlefields

                 are honoured

        amongst the shrubberies

                    the claws and fangs

of night-time frivolities the urges of a populace
unzipping itself for the all-seeing eye of a crystal ball


the square’s

     a drawcard for the main street mollys

          the stanleys hooked on fag ends the

would-be picnic dreamers

              asleep in their erotic sheathes


my argument is with

                the pond the stars parked up like small boats the girl on the bridge
                halo-watching the night sky / my argument is why a bridge a pond
                the decision to step up / slot perfectly into her comfort zone

                why her


                                  here

                                        not all is supposed to be
          
                                        should look as it should

                                        be exactly as it was at the start

                                       not all requires clarification


we perform rituals

under the moon’s crumpled make-up

our reflections stir fingerprints on the water

gullies of flesh

open up /         and voices rush in


                i hate it when all else fragments /

                falls apart

                mistakes happen

                systems falter

                my grip softens


we no longer run naked

                              through cells of make-believe

               or feel the heart’s sudden jolt

               a war bell’s clapper touch bronze

               the magnitude of distances close up


here

        i struggle

                           to hold my ground

                 a concession is made

        i return to her room her bed

                       the morning intrudes

                           and a sense of displacement

                 vanishes /       

thus says the gunman ~ Iain Britton



to turn again to

            the sea / the silver of a rainbow

the scoria run off

             of people

                   popping out live commodies

   of bird / beast / fish

             of landscapes unfolding /        

<>

           to confess   

this woman

mouths         purities  to a gunman

who delves amongst the creases

of long purple clouds /          practises his

            lingo his aim /           pulls

successes from her body


             a sudden upsurge

of pilgrims takes to the streets

<>

i see her as she is

straddling a rock on the beach going nowhere straddling very still on her rock
saying nothing / or something / pilgrims arrive to hear her riding nowhere very still
on the beach / the gunman taking pot shots as if she were a target is a target
as if she were an empty can a bottle a picture of his mother a cut out of General Custer another of the Duke of York who marched up a hill / again another of his mother
a cut out a picture

                           thus says the gunman

                     filling her with holes

        i see her as she is

<>

i delve into the purple cloth

            of pilgrims

            signifying

            where they’re going

             if they’re going

             some hesitate

             at railway stations

             bus terminals

             some abandon

             their vehicles

             where streetlights

             run out of eyesight

<>

the sea washes the sand the rock this woman       just sitting

morphing copper-green then brown then dark blue / the sea

washes her skin

her hair

her crevices

    where fish penetrate


            i pull the best from her body

claim customary rights
taste the salt on her eyelids
the water trickling off her shoulders

her torso opens to my hands

        the miracle is
                       how she moves / sits up

                                 forever stares

            i tighten the sky’s scarf around her neck

            i am nothing but a spectral figure
            blurred by the crowd

                      observing the orbiting sphere

                              of my imagination

<>

                   this shoot out is between opposites

                              says the gunman / just us

                   and this diminishing phenomenon
                                         
                                      no
                                      body else

Tuesday, November 13, 2012

Cinderella City ~ J D Nelson



Brand new free eBook out now.

Cinderella City by J D Nelson

For this and our complete collection of chapbook and e Book titles visit the Red Ceilings Press website

Monday, November 12, 2012

naming the mushrooms ~ matt martin



velvet shank
silk buttock
woolly kneecap
cotton toe

beech woodwart
oak pimple
birch freckles
pine zit

hare’s ear
badger bottom
hedgehog’s tummy
bat eggs

sulphur tuft
brimstone quiff
stinking toupee
fusty merkin

common earthball
mundane venus
drab moon
fallen sputnik

charcoal burner
waifs and strays
midnight cinderella
dirty peasant
 

chicken of the woods
cave mutton
moorland calamari
jerky-in-the-green

king alfred’s cakes
king harold’s eyeball
jane grey’s head
cromwell’s warts

dung roundhead
cowpat cavalier
jacobite’s turd
ranter droppings

fairy parasol
goblin sunhat
queen mab’s wimple
banshee hood

witch’s butter
hag’s cheese
warlock’s marmite
i can’t believe it’s not witch’s butter

amethyst deceiver
ruby charlatan
topaz devil
judas pearl

blushing bracket
rosy comma
raddle hyphen
red full stop





Matt Martin's recent poetry has been published by blart, Veer About, Poetry Salzberg Review, Herbarium, Writers Forearm, VLAK, ninerrors, Ladies of the Press and Streetcake. He is the author of the pamphlet spider bite (Kater Murr's Press, 2012). As eocene press, he self-publishes works of concrete poetry. He has run poetry workshops in infant schools, and also writes children's stories which he performs as part of his job at the Museum of London.