Tuesday, January 31, 2017

James Walton #32 Swiss formula minus milk

I’m a man
not a budgerigar
the first time
my father saw muesli
in reflective failure
to live up to
post war expectations

Kit Kelen #392 - at a bus stop - third day of the Rooster Year

at a bus-stop
third day of the Rooster Year

it's pissed-off day
out here on the street

everyone's over it
the new year again so what
they're complaining about everything
the name of the place they say
so's to disparage
it's become a curse
why did they come here?
everybody wants an explanation

but they're not giving up
no way not yet

apologies are overdue
nor are they forthcoming
everyone's shouting
no taxi stops
the buses never come
no rain
no wind
it's rather warm
but all of this can change

some cruel truth
is sinking in

but they're not giving up
not yet no way

some of course seem stoic
but that must be a front

more of them are pointing at
and some punch the air

look at the way they look at each other
they don't want to hear another excuse
this was a family once
it still is

how smartly they're dressed
speak all at once
and over each other

red in the face
it's all 'if only' business
faster and faster
louder and louder
you can't call it talk anymore

if only if only
but they're not giving up
not today not now

if only thinking
taken too far
leads back to wishing
one hadn't been born

there's a lot to be said ofr staying at home

if they weren't already drunk
I'd say they need a drink

the key word is recrimination
the situation is somebody's fault

the lulls that come suit spitting
one descends into a nervous twitch
another looks as if to strike

laughter would be cruel
and then it won't let up
laughter dissolves them
guilt splits however many ways

and then the day, grim day, remains

but they're not giving up
not yet no way

here's Misery and Company
and how's their conversation?
all furtive glances from a screen
the real world has them each in hand

make a list begins with dignity
with self-esteem, with pride

the miracle waited for them
but had to give up

they have lost everything
there's nothing left to lose

but they're not giving up
not yet no way
they're going back to the casino now

they teach a kind of calm

Kerri Shying R - # 187 - AUTOCRACY


Hate the people make up part of me I hate
the people make up things I left behind  that might

have been a part of all the ladder climbing rock wall
grabbing  panoply of the myth   ass fighter

here in this now space  in this not virtual  real real
real reality   that monkey gets shot right into space

man  that sucker left behind  obliterated  makes me cringe
he’s the fingernails on blackboard me    stand near it  you

will die

I remember fifth grade the whole year all the
girls they wouldn’t speak to me   the problem I had the same

hair colour as Penny  Stillweed   hate the part of
you I see

it’s me

Rob Schackne #230 - Non-theory (1)

Non-theory (1)

Did that really happen to you
no of course not
yes of course it did
another department of reality
it's Santa Claus and Snow White
did that really happen to you
I thought so
and (alright) it's Buddha and Jesus
if you've been paying attention
you'll see the same souls returning

do you ask yourself why
I thought so
you picked up the book
you ought to know
the difference
did that really happen to you

Incision # 60 Claine Keily

After the initial incision
he drew the knife in lines
while I stood
at the other side
of the table
as afterward he
removed his opal
cuff links

I tried to grin furiously
the way father had taught me
as he gathered the interior
looking at me
seeking my approval
while the television
rattled, unattended

I was unable to move
as he asked me to help
roll up the starched white
sleeves of his suit

Monday, January 30, 2017

Kerri Shying R - # 186 Bury The Lede

Bury the Lede

We  are our own stories now    unpinned from places    times
  sans the facts   minus the figures  

people trade    in futures    please don’t    tell them  anymore
 rustic hocus pocus  superstition  fit for peasants  those  that

don’t have one foot    stuck hard   in the IT  door   so the element
 of suspense   drained   

 a once-wetland of wonder

shoved into the twenty-four-hour news cycle   day in day out
 no rinse    all spin    

when you take the delicates from the

pillowcase   where they used to hang    it all just looks tawdry
the story it is me   the story it is me and you   the story it is   

 how I feel   about    me-and-you-against -the world   who I say the world is
 what I  see from this pile   this stuff and nonsense heap   minus a yard and

give or take these   forty acres and a mule    sacred flag   they fought
  for freedom    other ways to measure land     fibre   air and sea  no space 

but here   inside   
  hell   what a balcony  
 out here on the terrace   we sit   
   what a view

Rob Schackne #229 - "Parker's Tonic"

                                 "Parker's Tonic"

Kit Kelen #391 - goats can climb anywhere

goats can climb anywhere

I suppose
you feel sorry for the one
with still so little distance to go

you think I must wait
or run with the clock

useless to run counter
or off into another world

I think that's what you think

I address this to a younger self
of whom now I ask

do you cast your lot in with the road
to go with whoever may pass?

not enough light to see in here now

you fiddle with the thing
pick at it
no avoiding that
you're round the edge of
where it lifts

I have to pity your ignorance
even as of yesterday
and going forward

follow the lines on my face
I can't see them myself
but I know
that they lead
to the vanishing place

my fantasy's to find you there

Rob Schackne #228 - "Tangled up"

Tangled up in blue

when I paint my masterpiece
Dylan's Nobel speech
a hard rain's a-gonna fall
but don't think twice it's alright

Licence # 59 Claine Keily

She was left
to wrap up the
each afternoon
alone in the apartment
her hair sticking to her temples
as she had closed the door
to block out the flies

The suit
shoulder padded and black
that she wore to work
was now cast aside
next to her transparent stockings
as he spoke to her
about how much their life had improved
since he had attained his licence
then pressed the chrome
buttons to change her choice
of television stations

Sunday, January 29, 2017

Kit Kelen #390 - trying to let that be my comfort

trying to let that be my comfort

I'm just trying to roll with the punches

trying to keep my shirt on
keep my hair on
keep my pants on
keep abreast
head down
tail up

trying to keep up my end of the bargain
trying to keep my nose clean

up and at em
(if I'm able)

I'm just trying thing at a time
get it all off my chest
I think I can
I think I can

I'm trying to get the measure

roll with the punches
stay off the ropes
trying to breathe with my head between
the foot pressing down and the mat

trying for a bit of a bounce

trying not to choke on the fumes
or bile of spite

trying to get my question heard

I'm trying to shift my weight along
I'm pushing the shit uphill
just sayin

against all the odds
I'm trying to press on

everyone has days like this
if I'm lucky my last day will be so

I know there's nothing – not a thing – at the end
but the tunnel is lighted this way

Rob Schackne #227 - "Come closer"

“Come closer”

Come closer
look away from they
who want dominion
over all the pretty things
let’s put them off the trace
with beautiful extremes
an old ship’s mast
an old log of claims
a poem hard to fathom
many hours on the phone
some thorny music
some priapic joy
a list as long as a waterfall
the trees on a ridge
the birds are singing
and there’s so much light

it all zips itself in you.

Car # 58 Claine Keily

In the car
they drove to a late lunch
talked of Eliot
and Proust
his lips pressed
to her slippered feet
anything to drown out
the thought of
her mother
sleeping at home
serving them yogurt
dressed in sneakers
hovering always
on the far side
of their bedroom door

Saturday, January 28, 2017

Kristen de Kline #56 - teenage boys

my house smells of teenage boys trails of grease
meander across the cooktop and granite benches where the boys
nab the blue and white flecked plates we used to
snort lines on and stack them up with bacon eggs
macaroni cheese too much salt

my son offers me a drag of his Bond Street Red
as if he's discovered something
     new wild wonderful
the black boxes they're lined up in
splash out
     body parts
spit out
cancerous tongues
gangrene toes
a lung with emphysema
young toddler strapped up in a breathing mask
corpse like body of Byran Lee Curtis, who died aged 34,
he's a dead men talking but nobody's listening

my son turns off the flame but leaves on
the gas, unaware of all the famous female poets who used that method
to kill themselves, penning notes: I feel certain that I am going mad
again, I shan't recover this time, I can't fight any longer ...
my son thrashes out Stairway to Heaven as he washes the plates bubbles spill
like foaming lava in the sink, he drops
half a cigarette onto the outdoor sofa it simmers
slowly, almost politely,
rings of smoke through the trees burn a small hole in my heart
the size of a fifty cent coin

in the morning
     you find two nicks on your designer beer glasses
in the morning
     you can hear the forests still echoing with laughter

when you first walked out you would lie on the double bed in the shelter
random images projected across a white screen:
stray headlights pacing up the driveway
whispering winds
tall shadows
a dead man chasing you in dreams
a ring of smoke
a small hole

when you first walked out
     you couldn't smell the gas
bacon & eggs teenage boys
     you couldn't hear the chords of Stairway to Heaven
the songbird who sings the voices of those who stood looking

in the morning
     the boys' laughter wraps you up, warmly comforting
reverberating downstairs to the burnt-out sofa where you lie
with a plunger of coffee and a sense
     that anything, living, anything
is possible
     in the morning

Kit Kelen #389 - the idea of it

the idea of it
guess who the winner is

will it weary

is it a pendulum
goes truth to lie
does it turn the world
can it be willed

is it a ball
bounced down to flat
will it roll off to a corner

is there a picture of it you can see through
does it reflect reality

are other worlds all reached this way

inside out
or upside down
is it the wrong way round

golden egg goose
or well won't run dry

is it a bird
is it a plane

can it keep count
can it spell

does it have a territory
is it a state of nature

the road that brought us
was rebuilt
contractors must tender

does it love this planet truly
group hug

is there a rough beast slouching

can we get to it on-line
what if we go against

world's destiny
will it propel us
can we guess yet
is it the smoking gun

the floor falls out from under you
the walls are closing in

an endless list
of what might be questions

simple thing
so hard to make out

it's like amoeba expanding
cause why
cause does

it's words and more
and ugly faces
jeers and jibes and slur

if we vote against it
will it go away

how was it won
what was before

it isn't even a flag to fly
it doesn't have a shrine

everyone sneezes at it
everyone's sneezing right now
it's the same cold
you can't wash your hands enough

heads together for a pill
somebody else invents

we live in the middle
just try not to guess
it's a dare

it's all echoes
like a conversation you can't end

two vans with loudspeakers
slow through the streets
how many hearts each way today

it's always giving a speech

always stretching imagination
where you stand accused

this glass half empty
with a head on it
cause nobody really knows
how to pour

stumps at dusk
resume tomorrow
if you can find the pitch

there's weather
who won't you admit to it
who has to be us

when it kills
at least it's all of us killing
though I dissent, I do

or cast myself informally
vanish into my own illusion

there's every chance it turns on you

yes there are doubts
what works better than this

does anyone really know what it's worth
does anyone remember

where is its panoply
soft touch

how I have loved unthinking here
and have I loved too much

it's bitter to lose
when winning is work
is it better to watch

a legion of such unbelievers
believe themselves in a state of freedom
there's always a weapon with that

like abandoning the carnival
that grows up all around

who thinks that they can walk away
will make themselves a ghost

a lonely job for each of us
to cast ourselves this way

Béatrice Machet # 349 About Shadows

# 349

a shadow settles quietly on a word
on a look
it’s a will of saying
the attempt to write
heavier the word loses its speed and cannot grasp
the life’s momentum which has nothing to say
and has no interest in writing
one misses another one by almost nothing almost nothing

but if the settled shadow is of love
the difference inside the desire
between living or writing
is erased

une ombre se dépose sur un mot
un regard
une volonté de dire
la tentative d’écrire
plus lourd il n’a plus la rapidité de saisir
l’élan de la vie qui n’a rien à dire
et se fiche d’écrire
on se rate de si peu de si peu

mais si l’ombre posée est une ombre d’amour
la différence dans le désir
entre vivre ou écrire
se trouve gommée