Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

David Lohrey

Posted: February 16, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

Hand to Mouth

 

We die alone because old people stop fucking.

Once you give up sex, you’re on your own.

That so-called friend, your partner, no longer

returns your phone calls.

She’s found someone, as people used to say.

 

She’s found somebody else is a polite

way to say she’s no longer fucking you.

Dating is not about popcorn.

More than friends is the opposite of only.

 

Who controls the hands, controls the sex.

Your life is in her hands.

Hold them (down), tie them (up), or cuff them:

there is no on the other hand.

Her hands are all over the place.

 

What he needs is a hand job.

But you can hold his hand instead.

Go ahead, if it’s clean.

Isn’t that what “give your hand in marriage”

means?

 

Stolen kisses.

He had a hand in it. He conned her out of it.

The crime of the century was an act of indiscretion.

He pinched her bottom but she didn’t flinch.

Give an inch and he’ll take a mile.

 

Copulation won’t prevent death.

I never said that.

It’s Philip Roth’s brutal insight I have in mind:

Without sex other people don’t matter.

Without sex, there’d be nothing but hand to hand combat.

 

Jessica Gleason

Posted: February 16, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

Remembral

 

Five years ago,

I wrote about

aging.

In my late-twenties,

I struggled with

being rounded,

all soft corners

instead

of sharp edges.

Peddling my

woe is me

poems across the web.

In re-visiting

those words,

now in my

thirties

I long for

that

roundness

that

I hated

so

so

much.

 

Now, while still rounded,

I’ve started seeing

cracks in my

surface.

Skin

splitting where

once it was

a smooth

placid

slate covering

my muscles

and

bones.

Things sink

into

these new

cracks.

Food.

Specks.

Crumbs.

Makeup.

Those of us

without

disposable thousands

watch

as time

deteriorates

our

outer

shell.

I am

vein.

We are all

to some

degree

vapid.

 

But, beyond that,

my insides

are starting

to rot.

Five years ago, I had

most of my

organs.

Today,

I do

not.

They move, shuffle around,

inside of

my body.

They stop

functioning

as they were

intended

to do.

 

Surgeons with

sharp instruments

cut them

out and

study them

to see

what

went

wrong.

There is a dent,

a cavity,

in my torso.

It once held

an organ

that I will

never hold

again.

I cannot eat

what I want.

I cannot sleep

how I like.

I take pills

each

night

before

bed. They help,

but they do not

fix.

They do not

restore.

They simply

placate my body

for the

better

portion

of a

day.

And,

I wonder.

In five more

years,

will I think

this is

whiney?

Will I

be

empty?

 

 

Sanjeev Sethi

Posted: February 10, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

 

 

NOMENCLATURE

After a certain age
there are no secrets,
only issues.
One or two things
are obscured,
even from ourselves.
These aren’t codes
of confidence but
burdens.

 

Tom Hatch

Posted: February 10, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

A Dance

Simple Life?
She puts on
Michael Buble with a sigh
He sings Leon Russell’s
“A Song For You”
We dance and sing
I spin and fall
Dislocating my
Finger after all
On the floor

The Emergency Room
Wants and will bill $500 bucks
The doctor relocated my
Dislocated finger
I howled
The beautiful black
Nurse with blond hair
Rubbed my legs up and down
It feels better don’t you think
She said
Don’t Stop I want my
$500 bucks worth, I said
Blond hair
She has Blond hair
$500 dollars she makes it fine
My wife paid the bill
what the fuck

 

 

John Grey

Posted: January 24, 2017 in Musing, Poetry
Tags:

 

PEST CONTROL

A flea kicks me down the stairs.

A fly keeps me guessing.

A gnat figures that a full grown man

is a suitable opponent in a battle to see

who can bite the other first.

A mosquito is not one to ever

fall in love with me.

It’s always hate at first sight.

And then there’s that fly,

buzzing here, there.

treachery with wings.

A bed bug steals my sleep.

A tick ticks me off.

The fly finds a crumb

then it calls me a crumb

under its fly-blown breath.

Ants are on the march.

They wish to enslave me.

It’s a contest as to whether

they or the termites

will get to me first.

The moth imagines itself

a tiger moth airplane.

It threatens to drop the big one.

The fly points out

exactly where to hit.

But. while its attention

is elsewhere.

I grab the swatter.

slap it into insect hell.

Thus, the fight back begins.

Meanwhile, Martha irritates me.

Jenny only calls

when I don’t want to hear from her.

Chrissy two-times.

Holly has no time at all.

But please be patient, I tell them.

The invertebrates saw me first.

Devlin De La Chapa

Posted: January 24, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

 

a vulgar display

 

your wicked ink

 

bleeds

 

cavernously inside me

 

ember flames engulfed

around words of

misery, eroticy and disdain ~

you imprison me; that

when you punch a hole

through my concrete jungles

the electric stars and the tranquil moon

burn bright with vulgarity

 

 

Paul Tristram

Posted: January 22, 2017 in Poetry
Tags:

 

Show Me Your Teeth

Reveal your snarling temper.
The claws of the Demons
you keep locked away inside.
The keen edge of that razor
strapped sharp to reaction.
The anger fireworking
those pretty temples.
The thunder cloud
above your moods.
The stamping fury
of your defences.
The swift viciousness
of sudden attack.
The blood in your underwear,
the cursing spit
upon your delicate chin.
The emotional sucker punch
you have waiting
up those whirlwind sleeves
a-shaking.
Your perfect, ice-shattering
scream & battle cry.
Come, storm the castle walls
of my lunatic daydreams…
let’s fuck like enemies tonight.

© Paul Tristram 2016