The Pan Scrub Game
From thickset specky windows
he eye-balls
the tough job warp and weft
of the launch pad
as it floats itself
for the copter’s sea-strip.
Then the kitchen’s remodelled
- Tony bumps the eggbeater
off its base
buoying the bobbish sponge-backed slab,
hosing it into the bowl
to plane a cruddy pan.
In a fumbling presto
it slips into quick-sight
blades limiting a circle,
a cascade lighting on horizon.
Landing’s right as a trivet.
The Pesky Matchmaker
(after John Donne’s The Flea – a poem arguing
that 2flea bites conjoined a virgin’s blood with her
suitor’s, so why should she resist fooling around,
as they are already a blood marriage. Roger and
I were bitten in Exhibition Park…)
Skin bursts.
A cocksure gnat gnashed us both.
These two red spots
could light the spit of tongues.
In that infusing bowel
we’re inextricably linked.
Strangers yes
that’s but a nest-cuckoo (think love birds)
- we may as well go Dutch
lick the juice, grapes.
How about a bath
to scratch our itches?
Love bites perhaps?
Don’t get knock-kneed
‘cause we’re already bitten.
If the hose was not
why should we be twice shy?
The Phototherapist
Her office is to gloss still-life,
trace intumescences over murmuring skin,
interpret the cysts, viscid pits,
each wire-spiked dint
and keep the flushing in spotlight.
Light, the ellipsis of it, whits
in the air, on magnetic wings,
dead scales squalling
the veer of a buttercup shaft,
and fine fragments,
the perpetual hover of molecules
that all cells return to.
She pets defects of bloated crimson,
near-to-pus lesions,
with a talon of scintillation,
guards the tint of a prism
in synthetic visa,
blubbers not one magnolia tear
as she obliterates human flesh.
Undrawing stains is her trade,
she is the artist going backwards,
the power that lets in light.
The Lovers
He was organic.
A fluent, functioning body
Serviced, groomed
Pushed from the painscapes
By practitioners
With skills to cure all ills.
She had the good breath required
To feedback her social feedback
On spoonfuls of lovely white restraint.
He charitied the unattractive
The lonely, the odoured
With his smooth presentation
Of the actor/lover self.
She was conscious
Of plucking her mind
Powdering nerves
Perfuming darkness
There was never a moment…
He sang her a song
“You’re my funny valentine”
And gave her a red rose
With a black spot.
He listened as she recalled
A mouth calling out
In the blue engulf
“It’s you who are vulnerable!”
From the shores of the room
She watched as the door closed
And he walked away.
© Christopher Barnes, UK
To A Dear One
Get me something
from Vietnam, this time
make it opague. Others are starting
to pry. Now that my
bag's torn, I am no
longer invincible. I am
this way for you. Others mistake
it for confidence. It's just
that my bag's full, so it
tore. Today. Get me something that
will last. Get me something
bottomless.
© Rachel Chan Suet Kay
I Don't Believe In Gravity
I don't believe in chickaree
Nor in shadowing windows
I can’t believe in ghosts not seen
As well as soggy pretzels
I shat believe in eternal secretly
Nor in petty grocery
I both shant and I can’t
Think that you are wicked and or evil
I shall neither nor shall I not
Believe in things not forgot
Nor shall I nor nor will I as well
Wish anyone to go to jail
Unless of course they’ve been evil
Then I shall wish for a better glow
For although I don't believe in raw biscuits
Nor do I in paper weights
In yellow dreams of lazy mothers
Or things which are called fiats
So with all ad all of this
Not believing in coincidence
I see gravy on the potatoes
But gravity, no sorry, Joe
I don't believe in gravity
Banging Down The Barroom Door
banging down the bar room door
Don’t know what I’m doing that for
I didn’t want in cos I was there
And didn’t want out anywhere
In intense face all I did care
Just what happed to my chair
And although all the people stare
I just laugh because there’re not by the stairs
And so, my fiend, if no one cares
I’m going to take off my shoes
And take a sit to real the evening news
I Stay On So Darn Long
I stay on so darn long
Not pretending but still not writing
Surely not sloping up the porn
I just stay on till the morn
And yet it so darn long
That my eyes have been glowing in a burn
And maybe I will some day learn
You’re just not coming on
Any more I suppose
Yet it’s so hard for my eyes to be closed
But thought I don't want to cause any harm
I’ve stayed on so darn long
Doing nothing but
Seeking to see you once again
I miss you so much my dear friend
© G David Schwartz
HEATH LEDGER
CROSS road on your road
O crazy royal jester
O crippled circus clown
O sad harlequin without company
O fool of funerary carnivals
O crumpled joker without deck
the fear is yours
the fear is yours
ah! ah! ah!
fool! fool! fool!
ha! ha! ha!
the choice is in your feet
and only you will be guilty
of what will follow
and yet one thing is sure
it should be continued
not northward not eastward
not westward not southward
down in the abyss
with cross uphill and on the shoulders
all roads later or sooner whirl you up
the fear is yours
the world is yours
ah! ah! ah!
madcap! madcap! madcap!
ha! ha! ha!
the joker is removed from the deck
thinks he can conquer the world
and is completely right
the world is yours
the world is yours
© Yassen Vassilev
Born 1988 in Sofia, Bulgaria; Currently studying dramaturgy in NATFA „Krastio Sarafov”, Sofia, Bulgaria; Author of DELUSIONS (January 2008) – poetry and prose in dialogue – together with Mina Stoyanova;Author of the experimental performance WHEN THE CLOCKS ARE MELTING (May 2008), based on his own works and poetry from Geo Milev; In November 2009 wins Second award at the National Poetry Contest “Veselin Hanchev” for the poem “amnesia in time of meditation”; Currently working on his upcoming performance DIRTIFY.
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