Browsing All Posts filed under »Poetry«

Three Poems

May 18, 2009

1

I don’t blame you / Well maybe a little / Another reason I keep talking / Like I had a theory of everything / And why you think to live for ever / No great shakes / Too many full moons you say. By Paul Perry.

Three Poems

April 20, 2009

1

You mistake my head for a cantaloupe. Your mouth is speed metal against dry chalkboards. I dig your inner thighs out of my ears. I wear what’s left of you. By J. Bradley.

SEGUE

April 3, 2009

0

Discombobulated, prone, alone, facing up, errant wafts of aerosol lilies, I, having used up every organ and passing on the post-mortem, wonder, who chose the music? Goddammit, I said when I was dead I wanted a feast in a field with pissed people pissing around swilling whiskey to the dulcet sounds of Bobbie Gentry and the Grateful Dead, instead, I have Mozart, Chopin, Brahms, and some poor bastard I can't even name: I would've preferred Wagner, loud. By Dave Oprava.

Three Poems

March 18, 2009

1

I would have settled for getting through a poem without mentioning myself or writing poems. Again I set my sights too high. By Miles J. Bell.

Three Poems

March 16, 2009

1

i had long harboured fantasies of impotence; but i wasn’t sure how to act on them. there is always a risk of sabotage / a deep distrust but it fits perfectly in my hand; if i need to hold on to something i will hold on to that. the best answer to power is suspicion, so if you stand over me like that i will think dark thoughts. By Colin Herd.

Three poems

March 6, 2009

3

He won't let me touch him. On the back of his leg there is a tattoo of a geisha's head cut off, blood spilling from the base of her neck, there to remind him. I rest my head on his knee. The girl he trusted that cheated on him. Calypso. He runs his finger along one of my eyebrows. It feels rough. I tell him I cheated once. Kissed the wrong guy. He pulls his earring out and rubs it against the skin below his nostrils. He wears a solid black shirt and red striped boxers. There's a wet stain to the left of his crotch. By Brandi Wells.

Three poems

February 25, 2009

0

Music doesn't escape me. I hear a distant train's whistle and then it's gone. I think of the preacher from church sermonizing, while I thought of the girl who I used to love. Her eyes big and brown, her arms thin as a rail. By Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal