Spectres and spectacles of wild wants
ironclad links
and oral history of oral histories
counterintuitive improprieties
in the halo of time
art machines of a clandestine flow
very intact
heart full of napalm
at the dawn of a sizzling moan.
More at https://twitter.com/rusdaboss.
Dog howling, head pointed
towards the stark moon,
what is there in the moon
that makes it bark,
raucous anger and then petering into a whine, abysmally low,
everything is quiet,
as the silence is punctuated by the howls
the moon climbs up fearing this creature
the dog curls to sleep,
dreams. I shut the door
of my childhood, and the howl continues late into
the night. The winds of March and April lash the window panes.
Everything merges suddenly into litany of silence.
I heard your
warble voice come through
clearly on Sunday
not just when we telephoned
but in my own voice
calling back to you
echoes of one another.
Bold man and bold news
take out the trash
watch the sky for wind
water the tomatoes.
Heat rises into the apartment
I keep busy on the computer.
Long loves rinse clear in years
my hands older than my face.
Break out the pitcher plant face
to catch flies
and liars
practice gritting your teeth.
Whatever war is coming is inside
more than any gun
I fear who I’ll become
in summer.
More at http://www.robindunn.com.
Find in me
the soiled and sustained
history you
have been searching for.
See in me
the trembling hands
holding hope
at the feet of
a new land’s monument.
We are thoughtful. We shoe horses
so that they leave traces
along a shimmering collage
of fractured shells.
In hard-packed sand
their footprints are comma deep.
We are helpful. We shoe horses
and their feet
etch alphabets
in looser sand,
almost literate to a depth
of three inches.
We are engrossed, infer stories
as they enter water,
seaweed shackling
their hooves,
aquatic censorship,
though we see no traces,
and when they run free,
hock-high in foamy waves,
the garrulous surge of sea
added to theirs
make sagas,
scholarly tomes.
Observing them, we long
to scribble narratives
in lost planets,
galactic clusters,
probing deep space
with the point of our pen.
More at http://mariemacsweeney.com.
Like a dog bowl full of cherries.
Cigarette burns in a fake fur coat.
Wax or plastic fruit.
Cats with no tails.
A musical record broken in half.
Books with no covers.
Indigestion and headaches.
Sand in sandwiches.
Balloons that do not float.
There is something horrible
about broken pebbles.
It’s just wrong.
More at http://paultristram.blogspot.co.uk/.
Take it away, this acyrlic
heart, take it away and give
it to hospitals, underlie your buffeted dreams in a nether world of
importunate sorrows.
I arrived one day in this place, a hill town of salubrity, every
moment here was a pine drop, moment of the wind, evanescent hills
waiting to be glimpsed, contours rested in broad frames of the mind, rains unleashed weather spots, fruits the odour of pines. I will come back to these hills with picture post cards that will be hung on wallpapers of the mind, not in dark corners of sitting rooms. And in this sleepy town I dig roots of the past, common sensibilities, write a poem with you my surrogate love always asking questions and reworking destinies of love.
We found each other
along the way
not like a stardust
romance across the room
but real work
and real life.