Mikaela Castledine #299 – #303 The Sea

299

We are always trying and failing

to write new poems about the sea

but they have all been written before

and been mostly sunk

in the greening deep

300

The sea is

an epiglottal flood

a snorting catarrh

a misting cataract across your vision

the sea is an infection in a fracture

an oozing effluvian wound

that needs salt washing

before it eats away

The sea grows in the belly swelling

spreads through the vessels to the nodes

it cannot be contained cut out or chemo-ed

and will get you in the end

301

The sea is old skin

pinch pleated

easily bruised

festering beneath

slow to heal over

Punch drunk and reeling

choking

the sea swallows its own tongue

302

The sea is never happy

anxiety quelled

by obsessive and compulsive

washing and rewashing

303

The sea is vocal

all the sirens shanties and odes

are only air suck blown and redirected

through the conch of a shell sky

curled over a sea horizon

The sea is mezzo

the sea is baritone

Kit Kelen #304 – Dido

304
Dido
love is a wrestle
from the ground up
man, woman
and/or
make a tree
put out leaves
it takes attention
you have to know the tune
forget the words
they’ll come to you
and burn
love has us by the short and curlies
trim and it comes back thicker
raze to the ground
there’s a myth like Carthage
elephants over the Alps

Robert Verdon, #343, Bunbury’s Secret

in the crisper
that oubliette for vegetables
lies a secret
it is black
many shades of black
licorice
creosote
treacle
depression
midnight
in the centre so black it is almost white
it is mysteriously connected
to the cairn we built on Black Mountain,
to mark the times we’ve been to the very top,
that we call Bunbury’s Grave
after the non-existent character in The Importance of Being Earnest
one day, not too soon,
we may remember
that we put it there

Kristen de Kline #21 – Payback #2

Payback #2

They lied again.
It doesn’t feel sweet: Payback
The charge sheets shedding their slim plastic sleeves
multiplying into manilla folders brief cases filing cabinets
An SMS with the words: NAILED HIM
and exclamation marks rallying behind: !!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Senior Constable What’s-His-Name banging on about court appearances pleas further charges you don’t want to know protected people affected family members you don’t want to remember

Something crumbles
A shallow foundation, a concrete slab
The earth shifts, tilts, moves
Something crumbles
someone crumples

There’s still an off-taste waltzing around, inside your lips mouths words
You scoop out a teaspoon of mould from the jar full of cured green olives
There’s something menacing about mould
I stole that line
There’s something rotten in the State of Denmark
I stole that one too
Either way there’s something menacing and rotten

They lied.
It doesn’t feel sweet: Payback.
More blitzed cities on the 7 o’clock news
Earthquakes in cities once reported to be safe zones
Fault-lines they can’t locate
Still drafting poems at 2 am 3 am 4 am
It doesn’t even feel bitter sweet
They lied.

Rob Schackne #130 – A Meditation On Implacability

A Meditation On Implacability

1.
So, one day you’ll be struck by the likelihood that the sexiest
most beautiful and graceful woman or man walking the earth
won’t be famous, they’ll each be poor, forever invisible to everyone
including you, to everybody skittering in vain inside a bevelled world.
Both of them as near mad as cut snakes anyway – but no use chasing
what you’ll never get. As we know that starlights coming slowly
long after their parts have died – a bit behind the speed of observation
the recognition of pointed features, that sure promise of fealty
we think about when we search the sky at night – are not there.

2.
In small villages, unkempt and unseen, infected by ancient light-years
a contagious epidemic of peace sweeps through. No one knows how.
Frenzy is doused and people say a rare beauty lives alongside them.
It doesn’t matter now. But she, they’ll say, is not quite right in the head
or that he mostly talks nonsense about the stars and what their voices weigh.
And sad to relate, Louise, they never even met once at the village market.
As for the rest, their days esteemed by a proud strain of brilliance
they grow a little differently from others, sharper as each day passes
and no one reports their own blessing, or that their hearts beat better.

3.
Sitting in a café today, plotting with no hope the exigencies of such beauty
knowing that any distant history of stars shall never be properly broached
and knowing what I always wanted was what was always wanting – I don’t know.
What entitlement could I insist upon? Admit only that she never looked for me.
Or we looked away like estranged twins seeing a little too much sameness
in the way each moved and talked and measured and cried out loud at night
whenever curiosity replaced loneliness, whenever sense told us we should love.
We could see each other well enough, though it was like shouting into the wind
calling their attention to the magnificent as, unhearing, we turn away.

Béatrice Machet # 269 something series-4

 

SOMETHING SERIES-4

Quelque chose comme un titre comme un geste d’apaisement après l’estocade des phrases. Parce qu’on nait mortel. Parce que les impatiences gomment ce qui niché dans les plis du temps propose des chemins longs de traversées hasardeuses. Ignorance et connaissances deux surfaces où faire glisser nos  acquis de conscience. Quelque chose que l’on dirait vitesse est requise dont l’expérience se dit coup de vent.

Something like a title like an appeasing gesture after the sword thrust of sentences. Because mortal we are born. Because impatience erases what is nested in the folds of time proposing some long roads of hazardous crossings. Ignorance and knowledge are two surfaces which our consciousness our awareness is gliding on. Something we could name speed is required which experience names gust.  Of wind.

Chris Mansell quad #25 flatout moodlin

…in which you can’t be bothered.

Jeltje Fanoy #78 3 walls

a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension
a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of spiteful remarks
a wall of condescension a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred

a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision
a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks
a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred

a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension

a wall of

                                                spiteful remarks
                            wall of hatred a wall of condescension
            a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of spiteful remarks
            a wall of condescension a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred
a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks

a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred
a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension
a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision
a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred
a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension
a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision
a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks
a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension
a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision
a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks
a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred
a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision
a wall of hatred a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks
a wall of condescension a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred
a wall of derision a wall of spiteful remarks a wall of hatred a wall of condescension

Rob Schackne #129 – Untitled Beetles

Untitled Beetles
                              
                             for Patterson

I too believe that beetles speak from longing
loved by a God that never speaks to them
that after looking around for somebody
else to do the work finally it’s up to them
the beetle people the beetle poets
to examine the record very carefully
for the ones closest to the inner bark
and listen for the scratches near its heart
scrying and carving a message no one else can hear
except you and me and that little kid over there
also loved by a God that won’t clean up his mess
this one encouragement is our commonality
as we see small souls gathered in all their places
under the sky in the trees standing in the wind
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