Saturday, July 25, 2015
On a computer somewhere
a classical choir
burns with spiritual passion!
Hell is transcended
like a star's cool fire
irrupting through the light years
with a million other burning stars.
Oh voice of such a painted night
exploding in this heart of ours
inside from the city's wearied cars.
Posted by the red ceilings at 1:06 PM
Tuesday, July 14, 2015
knees deep within ivy
becoming the soul, nature big
and growing into veins
maybe trees are status quo
oblivious people of forest
untouched by the toxicity
of the postmodern-day's chemicals
lurking reasonless idol grabbing
I clutching for the delivered dream
word cultivations catch
in downhill fire
now uprising is the speechless sky
striking sensatious leghair
over skin a reason blooms
a piece of the piece and peace
narcotic is here feeling halfconsumed
as an integrel flake
heady wigs made of walrusfur
skyward seems true
a morsel of a tinybig particle
[of an aggregated whole
a hole within a hole
filled with many holes
inside the hole]
whimpers smiles humanless
when you are there—
whether tomb or dirt or concrete
all really meaningless in the end
bury me naked in the dirt with no casket,
[just dump me into a ditch dug in
a cornfield or a poppyfield
and let me get back
to feeding the earth]
cold aching hungry
hunger of the spirit unfed
all this postmodern food dried up
and poisonous a downfall
of quality in every spectrum
of life when games are played
with these Manmade realities
every cure lies in the rows
of different peaceframes
honey of saltwater burns
the cut closed blossoms
its convincing Blossoms,
Heath Brougher lives in York, PA and attended Temple University. He recently finished his first chapbook, with two others in the works, as well as a full-length book of poetry. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Diverse Voices Quarterly, Of/With, Otoliths, Main Street Rag, *Star 82 Review, MiPOesias, Icebox Journal, Van Gogh's Ear, BlazeVOX, Eunoia Review, Crab Fat, Zoomoozophone Review, Indigo Rising, Gloom Cupboard, Inscape Literary Journal, and elsewhere.
War sap sour war
bat flying hell locust husk
heaven pipedreamt goodness
down toilets riding swirl
bubbleful leaves laundering
sandstone wiped dry with wet rags
and dreams of roaches
insisting on parallel insanity
with a broomstick ceiling
cigarette face brown puffs of kiss
and pus newbirthing ancient names
who keep a box of clay inside
a box of steel a forceful ocean
breeze breaking combs equal
to the styrofoam punctures
of mummies and mannequins slightly
left with breath to dance in perfect stillness
and cold veinless stirs of
no vision pouring through the sockets
like a midnight wasp sucking off
a baby's head.
death reamed head unalive
these cells whether saints
or sideshows uprise their feed
to plants that are
consumed and included
disseminated by wind
cotton whatever hand or
head form serves the meal
to grass or gardens
spores still the plant
slit having its belly
eaten to luscious green
Monday, June 22, 2015
Thursday, March 12, 2015
good poets know when to shut-up.
your cloak wraps about your ankles as you warp.
the poem on your fork is a gringo because your country
is conquered. stop standing in a stadium looking for Eden
now, all the places you ever wanted to go to are in you
all the fortune cookies have been read, floating in the miso
thinking that home was something you could own
my knees are ant-bites in weeds from pre-pubia
western mind makes mines not museums
you just hope there are no more explosions
which give children tongues to run with
home for bacon. kite flying above
the universe with humans parts in its strings
watching an entire culture punch itself in the face
and sell black-eyes to blind children
O, hearkeners! what you hearken to?
what say you all, those so hardened?
I see every dog in the street as wayward intentions
I am jealous of and miss. do you also darken?
I feel your tail between your legs. moons don’t hover
moons choke with chalk all day. let’s all choose not to howl
it makes you lovable, your ears hanging down
like pods and nettles, or flags striped with invisible
violence. once, we ran faster than hell’s wolves
we covered such terrain; I remember when we
got scared by something; then we started making
incredibly sharp maps which severed our internal tongues
once, it’s true, I did use hairspray.
I was a boy in the Carter administration.
things weren’t not awesome.
Luke Skywalker action figure had a saber
you could slide out of his arm.
every time I get bloodwork done I think of this.
the entire medical industry is my William Shatner.
do you think I could take your blood better?
with a piano wire, shuriken, or fishing lure?
a whale bone cut a bamboo shoot and empties
upon a banana leaf and I drink you.
in the mirror, my beard’s shavings clog a plastic fiberglass sink.
imagine fixing your hair before an ultimate bleeding.
whale-oil on your scalp. You are ridiculous.
please be a red-blooded-filled boy again.
Stevens says one must have the mind of winter
I have the mind of pollen
the papers pile higher than the heart
I killed myself tonight
next, I was made aware
of all of the selves that should have been killed
and I killed the wrong one
the poem of the act of the mind
the hand on the neck of the wind
Joseph Victor Milford is a Professor of English and a Georgia writer who is currently working on his EdD doctoral studies. His first collection of poems, Cracked Altimeter, was published by BlazeVox Press in 2010, and he is presently composing a collection of poems with Hydeout Press, forthcoming in 2015. He is the host of The Joe Milford Poetry Show, where he has compiled an archive of over 300 interviews and readings with American and Canadian poets. In addition, he is also the editor of RASPUTIN: A Poetry Thread (a literary journal of poetry).
Friday, February 27, 2015
So you are still
coffee grows cold
on unpolished tables
it is not right
to list grievances
deer at dusk
cold enough to
light the stove
take the boat
revisit the burn
play the soundtrack
compile a playlist
'Please Rain Fall'
'If You Need Someone'
plastic wrapped in card
pressing plant messages
enamel coffee pot
thick Sunday paper
polished parquet floor
steamed up windows
so you are still
coffee grows cold
all about apologies
watches over us
stone circle St Tysilio's
Snowdon Buffet Bar
so you are still
tears float through
the hanging crystal
cases in the A7
stop is not
record the essence
of blue hyacinth
grate is cleaned
let's set up
blue top milk
curtain half closed
it feels colder
than 6 degrees
familiarity of commentary
sack of off cuts
for the final time
steam from the pot
key hole draught
kitchen roll excluder
top floor bathroom
a preference for
the purple hand towel
wooden bath mat
blue bath towel
me of the back room
across the crescent
a tree stands
the soap isn't orange
& mango just mango
like the summer baths
it comforts to know
allows for you
to return through hail
& sun from the island
sound of water
stealing of water
her favourite part
every time he walks the shore
the sea is different
is that entertainment enough?
remaining Christmas cups
a scouse accent?
road not place
though I remember
revisiting and the need for oil
cottage bath in kitchen
home for a few days
Dave & Julia Cocteaus
& 'The Big Express'
comfort of heating
to toast bread
crackle long fork
add at ease
twenty four hours
Andrew Taylor is a Liverpool born, Nottingham based poet and editor. His collection Radio Mast Horizon is published by Shearsman, a pamphlet is forthcoming from VerySmallKitchen. Poems have recently appeared in Otoliths, Pages, The Merida Review and The Camel Saloon. He co-edits erbacce and the visual blogzine M58.
Thursday, January 8, 2015
Clouds of Zyklon B, guaranteed to kill 99.9 percent of human bacteria in 20 minutes, roll in at dusk. I wish now that I had finished college. It’s a wish without any discernible purpose as events gain momentum. The county poorhouse begins to rock wildly from side to side. What would Jesus do? Kiss his ass goodbye is what. Every day 2,400 Americans – give or take – go missing, hiding out under assumed names, abducted off the street by strangers, or, as in this case, burned up like fuel in a rocket streaking from the tomb.
Posted by the red ceilings at 11:18 AM
The Air Is on Fire
A military band strikes up a rousing tune. The age of criminal responsibility – that is, eligibility for the death penalty – must have just been lowered again, this time to twelve. Even the innocent have begun to speak in code. “Rain” means that a neighbor has been arrested, “snow” that a curious bystander is missing. Easily, almost absent-mindedly, a shadow on the scale of a metropolis has evolved. You’re not familiar with the science of it or, for that matter, with what happens to those who believe their own computers spy on them while they sleep. This is ironic, as when a book that took years to write takes you only a couple of days to read.
Posted by the red ceilings at 11:17 AM