poets in bed

electric blanket
not only thing turned
on …………. then off
as he ponders line breaks
remains a bit unsure whether
adjective ‘stodgy’ or noun ‘stodge’
would sound stodgier when making
oatmeal porridge adhere to memories

some(other)body begins to snore
after reworking and submitting
her assorted rejects to further
fickle editorial scrutiny

no other light bulb
screw-screwing
likely tonight

Hollow

Heel crunch echoes
Off barren floor
Ahead, an openness
Embracing
No terror lurking
No latent plague
All alive
Anticipating
So much space
For so much grace
And generosity
A gift of possibility
Hollow
Holding hope
Only unaccompanied
Soon to be joined
When soft
And warmly welcome
Sweet with solace
A voice behind

“It’s okay,
It’s all right!”

And hollow is full

 

MH Clay lives and works in Dallas, Texas. His poetry chapbook, Perhaps This Rain, was
published in 2007 with a second edition released in 2010. He has a poetry page at
MadSwirl.com. His poetry collection, sonoffred, was published by Rebel Poetry in
Ireland in March of 2015.

arriving

crawling on beach rocks bare knees grazing blood
no other reason but perceiving approaching panic
as whining dog watches baby cry spit and mother
lights one cigarette off another halleluiah shouts no

stop lights flash red to green and bang back yellow
then freeze as i’m amused by drivers confusion more
than what this musters in our present isolated struggle
with my own seeking need for newly exaggerated zilch

a thin drawn couple i had by pull down tin shutter
swear and fight gabble faces curled lips tight white
grasping wrist as my second-hand coat mirrors poverty
i wonder to motivate care help their toil but maybe not

he said don’t post collected explicit you know your past
stinks of what others gape only in movies and i say back
i’m not crouching on fuck lies for god’s sake i never hid
sex drugs creative slide as everyone waiting knew my all

so hoarding junk is reason enough for fearful apathy
to ride my ageing distance of self-grown answers wanting
not found in vending machines that bubble from dreams
i don’t know anyone’s names so call them all whatever

the best thing happening in my failing is being dropped
by mean clutch of old friend as he wrote rules of need
yawning on tablets of bile not living up loyal be is dead
stacked in box accountable was only tally screaming go

as summarising at crossing roadway gives knowledge blind
consumed by greedy seekers of look here comes another one
staring in cracks as cruisers suck pop music sensation need
and i just cry relief finally arriving at what i never was

 

Stephen House has won many awards as a poet, playwright and actor. He’s received
several international literature residencies from The Australia Council. His chapbook
“real and unreal” was published by ICOE Press. His next book is out soon. His poetry is
published often and performs his acclaimed monologues widely.

“arriving” was originally published by Former People USA / experimental-experimental-literature USA

AT THE BARBERSHOP

The bus station used to be there,
Where that bank is now,
At one end the barbershop
We went to, my dad and I,
In his last years,
On afternoons late with August regret,
Witch hazel, diesel fuel
Mingling in the foyer,
Our outings, our time together,
Brief respite for my mother.
He could still feign conversation then.
Mr. Melton nodded gently as he
Trimmed an apron of gray.
I heard talk that seemed to be of baseball,
Or a sudden expletive, not deleted,
In a voice that sounded angry but was not.
The bus station was torn down,
My father died,
Mr. Melton found another shop across town.
I still went to him some,
Even after his hands began to shake.

During the Meiji Restoration

Outlet channels &
methods of de-
livery. He has to
change them. His
cardiac silhouette—
cut from a sheet of
synthetic resinous
material abandoned
when Chanel quit
its flagship spot in
central Osaka late
last year—has become
démodé. Respectful
railroad employees
still trim the edges;
but the ultra-trendy
baby boutiques that
filled the nearby
streets have either
closed or trans-
formed to “nothing
over ¥500″ thrift
stores. Billboards
loom blankly above
the few pedestrians
that remain. Some-
times a delicate, girly
database packed
full of free online
dressup games is the
only thing that can
shift the modern novel
in its focus & tone to
remake it as a conduit
for delivering anti-
oxidants to the skin.

The Devil’s Coffee in a Cold Styrofoam Cup 

Pulling up that brown 70s cigarette burn comforter 
at $79/night, 
I sit and listen to the main strip traffic splash 
through the flooded drainage system  
for a few hours, 
play with a rounded switch on the bedside 
lamp that went out when Hirohito 
poisonous blowfish bit it under a carless knee jerk sky  
that had moved on to other things, 
that hyena pack deck of cards missing the one-eyed jack 
in the Gideon’s preachy side table; 
another cold water 5 am shower  
and I am back on the road; 
the devil’s coffee in a cold Styrofoam cup 
in my lap and dawn’s motionless deer    
still littering the long-gutted highway 
with eyes wide as watermelons. 

Artificial Music 

Unwritten exceptions,
undermined escapes,
our novel approach.

Tactical engagements
of unspent collateral
in linear non-speak.

Suggestion surrenders,
impulses as electrical
discarded warnings.

Uninvited
in my own body,
I want yours.

Trying to be human
in this android factory of
dazzling spare parts.

Immobile until
inertia surrenders
remote possibilities

Love becomes
a tempting commodity
others manufacture.

We take our places
as if an assembly line
of the latest models.

Electrical impulses
through liquor placebos
we test for sparks.

To artificial music
on crowded dance floor
take tentative steps.

Lacking direction
we slow dance until
only we remain.

Rp Verlaine, a retired English teacher living in NYC, has an MFA in creative writing from City College. He has several collections of poetry including Femme Fatales Movie Starlets & Rockers (2018) and Lies From The Autobiography 1-3 (2018-2020). Rp’s work has been featured in Punk Noir, Ygdrasil, and Runcible Spoon.

That Was Many A Moon Ago

Sometimes the chill of the season matches the distance from me and my soul.
All the old faces are but photographs captured within my mind.

There’s magic in youth that if I knew the destination, I cannot say if I would have endured the
journey.

Sometimes holding onto a ghost, beats holding onto nothing at all.

I remember the reflections of what I once considered love captured within another’s eyes.
We always linger upon the verge and dance upon the brink.

Cold winds and a gentle embrace, I never wanted anything beyond a moment’s escape
entwined with you.

You’ve officially reached your destination.
The season is now as empty as my reflection.

Here’s a toast to the loves that we shall never know again.

STATEN ISLAND FERRY

We can see as one,
from many boats,
the beauty –
from the ferry to Staten Island,
from a kayak in the sound,
of souls, white steamers,
like diamonds resurrected
from lumps of coal,
in the clock face –
that’s us, young together,
magicians headed for a shore
that confounds so many
but is the perfect landing place for us.

Our intellect
is like feet on wet soil,
visioned on the rivers of the world,
like a verb, that immaculate engine,
both of us, making tracks up the dock
and laughing – now I lead, now you lead –
swift and slow, slow and swift,
smell of smoke, some city buildings,
leafless lots and emerald flame
from the bloodshot sunset,
feel like I’ve cashed a big check
though my pockets are empty,
burrow deep in the rushes
in the wake of our getting here.

This time we’ll buy up
the parks and the houses,
with a broken bottle
you just about step on,
where a condom half-buried
backs up to the bus terminal,
and the small hand of a child –
where’s the poolhall?
where’s the jazz club?
where’s the jail?
where’s the doors throw open?
but there’s shelter in stupor,
there’s wine in abandonment,
there’s hallowing in the dark to come.

standard ritual
for lost friends

rattle of your pills
severed by thin partition walls

into a shaking hand
like you once held a pencil

once upon a time
a cigarette

an echo against the box

she would think of you
like a caged memory

in your stomach
where hope is kept

an alchemical reaction

a toast
to better days