Notice the Pope’s white skin beneath the red velvet robe. Contemplate the thin papery silhouette of Italian hands touching himself – sometimes lovingly smoothing finger tips of the right hand over his perfect belly.
God has called him while he drifts toward sleep and the kingdom of his dreams – a sometimes white world of goodness made salient from the footprints left by tiny angels, the ones who have danced across the filigree of his indefectible batiste shirts angels who have enjoyed trampolining off the springy fat of his cheeks.
Hunter Boone is published in Sappho Magazine under the pen name of J. Hunter O’Shea, has a BA in Creative Writing, studied with Stuart Dybek, Eve Shelnutt, Herb Scott and Jaimy Gordon whilst completing a MA of Fine Arts at Western Michigan University, and plays a Fender Stratocaster.
Thomas had insisted that Joanna was a Lorrainer who conversed with angels in the heart of solitude, a shepherdess who saw God in forests and fountains, the fountain of Domrémy where fairies and fawns sought the sanctity of the woods.
The sagacity of her guileful judges is worth nothing but ridicule. They asked what language the angelic visitors employed in their discourse with her as if God could not breathe his whispers into her pure, innermost thoughts.
The Pucelle d’Orleans died grandly in her battle with fire and falsehood. The soldier who planned to throw a faggot on her scaffold regretted his plot. He spent the remainder of his life a penitent after he had seen the fluttering dove rise out of the ashes of the Maid of Arc.
Susie Gharib is a graduate of the University of Strathclyde with a Ph.D. on the work of D.H. Lawrence. Her poetry and fiction have appeared in multiple venues including Adelaide Literary Magazine, Green Hills Literary Lantern, A New Ulster, Crossways, The Curlew, The Pennsylvania Literary Journal, The Ink Pantry, Mad Swirl, Miller’s Pond Poetry Magazine, and Down in the Dirt.
30 minute solos all on a long tour of America, on a stage behind Miles Davis.
he spun it out in silver like a spider with a web, catching flies and sometimes juxtaposition.
supposedly in a bar once after ending a show with another one he said “I don’t know I just can’t seem to stop playing”
and Miles looked at him over his sloe gin and said “you ever think about taking the horn out your fucking mouth?”
D.S. Maolalai is a graduate of English Literature from Trinity College in Dublin and has been nominated for Best of the Web, and twice for the Pushcart Prize. His poetry has been released in two collections, Love is Breaking Plates in the Garden (Encircle Press, 2016) and Sad Havoc Among the Birds (Turas Press, 2019).
once he gripped it from this conflagration of the concordant horizon which arranges itself and is tossed and merges with the fist which would grip it as one who threatens destiny and the winds deep inside weighs the shadow hidden in the yawning depth that surges over the submissive graveyard with faded finger
Jonathan Hine’s work has recently appeared in Dissident Voice, Academy of the Heart and Mind, Under the Bleachers, Duane’s PoeTree and Horror Sleaze Trash. He has forthcoming poetry in Cajun Mutt Press and North of Oxford.
Once She asked how powder was made and he replied from the eyes of goldfish.
Another time they played fictional characters. He was Stanley Kowalski
In one of those paper thin moments that psychologists journalise, she asked him ‘Will you ever love me?’ He told her, ‘The Big Dipper held the answer.’
Today her home contains an aquarium, the complete works of Tennessee Williams and a skylight in the bedroom.
The man that she married doesn’t understand why she looks out the skylight when they make love.
R. Gerry Fabian is a retired English instructor. He has been publishing poetry since 1972 in various poetry magazines. He is the editor of Raw Dog Press. He has published two poetry books, Parallels and Coming Out Of The Atlantic. His novels, Memphis Masquerade, Getting Lucky (The Story) and Seventh Sense are available from Amazon, Apple Books, Barnes and Noble. He is currently working on his fourth novel, Ghost Girl.
You started it by wearing the slinky tigress outfit the one that snaked over your hips to lay bare your tawny body beneath liquid cellophane. I have no idea why I did not have enough sense to leave you where I found you – in the contortionist’s cage on Times Square where you always humped your best in front of an audience to the beat of a long line of mule-eyed protagonists. “Their numbers are as the stars in the sky.”
She had the emotional presence of a toothpick, the personality of a comatose eel…
A woman I desired read Antigone which she encouraged me to do, so I did. When I came upon ‘Teiresias’ I said, “I can’t spell that,” she said, “Look it up.” Somewhere.
She became that woman you wouldn’t expect – out of proportion to everything else.
When she moved her body slid – of a piece – which caused a problem. The ground upon which she walked swayed and swelled people running, different directions up and down the boulevard while the other women – kinder, nobler, gentler with foreign accents showed themselves open, not nearly as dubious – yet this one stuck hardened to her molten core – sad – yet oh so beautiful in a glittering sort of way
beckoning, surreal, blue tourmaline eyes that rolled back into her head as she spoke incomprehensible and inhuman things – enticements thick with ice, this sorry sophist and enigmatic soul you couldn’t poke through though I tried many times.
The skin is thick and deep with grey pleading for a little joy in shades of pink the soul is blank and hollow in darkness asking for a little warmth in tones of stars the heart is silent and still rainbow monochrome begging for a life-giving little jolt of blue the bones are frozen, attached in ice clear aching aloud for a reprieve of flesh of warm red a mind hovers inside in fiery lament wanting only for a bit of hours to exist yet it is only a grunt unheard of the colourful ones in the prison of the lone, the sentence is eternal the death remains of nauseating flavours the living will once again keep safe distance.
Old Fools
The bus will be late again this Sunday under the century mist on a cold winter bench old fools must wait, their gaze upon a gate to a paradise invisible to the passers-by.
The city sleeps still in a shroud of oblivion lives have slipped into their temporary tomb worn to pieces by the inferno of infinite routines while last trees cry dying leaves upon the icy pavement.
The two might sleep for a little while he holding tight onto the shiny tank she dragging on a greyish cloud of ash ancient as the traditions graved on monuments.
Unseen, living in the wrinkly bubble of their age they seek the hesitant gaze of the other memories built upon the fresh bones of infants a smile shy as a fleeting moment escapes the universe.
They laugh no more to the keen eye of the observer the flesh has fallen off the crackling frames leaving senseless messages of passed lives upon the pavement welcoming to their shameless survival.
The decades have built fortresses around their secrets shriveled breasts kindly placed onto an altar still beat with the passion of a single score carrying too many years to count, they love for all times.
Scent of the Ancient Ball
There is a dim ray of a future behind the cracks of the ramparts sounds emanate from the twirling shapes of silken whites while the stone burns with the icy flames of the prison.
To be part of this strange ball but a dream in the depths inhaling fumes of a past reverie poison or elixir aiming to taste what remains of the ghostly dance.
The heavy oaken gate persists in its temerity its lock rusted melts into torrents of a bloody paste no drawbridge will again annihilate the cruel moat.
It is a tower of ivory, mother of pearl, diamond and silver treasure for the hungry to be consumed perhaps too late where she is surrounded by the death-defying maidens.
Centuries go by, she continues in her light genuflection hands joined in a prayer searching only communion one with all, pure of soul as once of body.
Signature
The presence is signed on the old photograph hanging there on the left wall, by the window built of trusted hands, while outside the tree wants attention.
He too can write on the pane of the ancient glass.
Finger prints on the side of the redwood desk, tend to the forgotten elbow, never fully able to rest on the worn-out couch, trampoline for young charm.
It hoped its future would be of leather; but not so.
The room screams with memories it alone keeps safe; the air is filled with sparring souls attempting an accord; freckles of dust, sparks of their little power inflamed.
Wishing they had landed on the feature of a Mona Lisa.
Unwilling to shine, the lamp, secure under her banged shade, would like to jump at them and empower their dying light, while planted on the thinning carpet, they remain quiet.
Waiting for another moment, another time, to become.
Song of the grave
The stone is barren it was once broken slate now it awaits.
Cold it may seem yet warm in truth smooth and perfect it shines as many stars.
The rock draws like a magnet light rains as so many tears.
Let fall come and a palette of colours in oils and pastels it will glow in the fog.
Winter snow flakes glitter and blind forever lasting chagrin a wonder smooth as granite.
The river runs near singing it melody murmur of hope in eternity renewed.
The sun returns lighting its fire life is reborn on a single tomb.
Our ayatollah looks at me with contempt He put me in charge of stoning an adulteress
I found a good wall to set her against but I’d forgotten to see to the stones Someone had come and taken them to repair the wall that surrounds his olive grove
So there we were all ready to execute her and no stones
The ayatollah looked like he wanted to beat me to death with his bare fists but he was old and frail
Instead he exiled me and the harlot too The villagers took hold of our arms and legs and tossed us out the village gate slammed it shut behind us
We looked out at the desert turned and looked at each other
A box of old record albums – Billy Joel, Donny Osmond, The Eagles, Partridge Family – ugh.
And the covers are worn, the vinyl is scratched – no one’s going to buy these even at 50c apiece.
Same as that ratty Cabbage Patch doll. Or the Miami Vice lunch box. Or those clothes – so 80’s. And the invisible dog – please.
No
wonder there’s been no sales.
This is your past. The present’s not buying it.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident. Recently published in the Homestead Review, Poetry East and Columbia Review with work upcoming in the Roanoke Review, the Hawaii Review and North Dakota Quarterly.
