Three Poems

by Sam Alex
 
Ceci N'est Pas Une Poem
 
You and I shook hands under a sunburn sky
and agreed to move me, pedicured by worms off the lawn.
I grabbed at my own hands, felt the friction of fruitless labour,
you eye my sense of commitment; this spade is a spade-
is a blade, good for digging graves in an August shade.
 
My grandfather was a horticulturist, I am a conversationalist-
as I’m pulling spare roots, making space for my boots.
I lift myself a rag doll and gently let myself pass-
like a moment,
like the calm before the storm.
This is because I asked;
How good is your heart?
I’ve a lab coat, a grocery mart scale,
and I weighed the bulk of it to no avail.
It was an empty thing, made anorexic by a ring.
 
Did we not agree to rob banks and liquor stores?
when we’re gunned down behind our car doors?
and we’d take poison and asps, 
and wear the same identical rib-
the one I feel now, crushed by your infidelity.
 
But you are my valve you say, pig part, we shall bury you too
and so we made a move of me-
me, where I lay- where I collapsed,
and swallowed the past, taste of ash.
 
Our love is trash, an unrecyclable truth that brought us no use.
Let’s haunt ourselves, the guilt is addictive,
a séance for some sycophants.
Let’s take aim at us,
hunt ourselves down in foxless forests,
I married you for this.

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Four Poems

by Christopher Mulrooney


lightly plowed
 
just the once over please
between them mounded furrows
amongst the weedy turf
for a little light sowing today
 
 
on the button
 
as simple as discourse
to any refined ape
sink one on the golf course
Beulah peel me a grape
 
 
mysteries of darkness
 
only a voice
then a dim silhouette
it might be anything
like the famous cat
 
 
symphonic poem
 
the prelude a very nervous thing
is sometimes given separately
the main body of the work
passes along the stages of the myth
to reverence and exaltation
 
 
Christopher Mulrooney is the author of  (The Moon Publishing & Printing), (Ood Press), and (Turf Lane Press, forthcoming).
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Four More Short Poems

by Michael Prihoda


fear it all

cigars in the basement,
mushroom clarity.

we will
fear it all soon

grow up

spitting over graves
and we’re not trees—

we’ll never grow up

bars

bars either side of the freeway—
when did this become a prison?


poison

the snake of a plug
and trailing cord.

slow
poison.

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Five Poems

by Dylan Wagman

Now They Got to Pay for It
 
Talking about colour 
colour! Ohhhh
1989 when Pierre Trudeau and Brian Mulroney
Ooooo Ooooo 
that was fun.
Yonge and Lawrence
working with Pierre Trudeau for insurance
for the fat punani
that sounds delicious doesn’t it 
A-little-bit-skinny-one?
Skinny one can’t get a piece of the pie 
cause they only like them fat punanis.
 
Yeah, well, that’s the way they talk.
They call everything punani and blood clot
You gotta have the blood clot
to wipe off the clot.
You know what I mean baby?
That’s what their grandmas teach them
long time ago from Jamaica.
With the Caribbean sea. 
The white woman.
The white woman.
Strawberry blonde.
It’s the special.
It’s a tradition to eat raspberry cheesecake in the bedroom 
with an old bitch.
And they deserve it.
Cause it’s just too much.
 
See the housewife.
The housewife just wants to sit home all day
and cook and clean and be tired and watch videos.
That’s why she is where she is today
on Dixie.
You see she’s always tired 
She goes, “Aaahh I’m too tired to have sex honey.”
The sex was too hard for her this month.
She figured the Canadian guy was nice from Winnipeg
Yeah, that’s what I mean
she chose the guy with the hernia
And you know what?
They’re all fat pigs look like that in Scarborough.
On Neilson and Sheppard.
Thanks god he’s a white man.

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titled un

by Eric Wynen

weepin soul
reapin sown
soil toil
too oil in
boilin
cheap scrap coilin
dirt cheat royal in roilin
preachy teachy bouillon broilin bacon
growlin hallowed never ever thereafter
prowlin prioris prioritized
some prior-illuminati panthers
posin rows in rosen roof rentals
in came the element
the all-net in come
intra internettlement-well meant well
mean wells
mean tears well
meat wares tell
the west is gone
our best bleached pond
the crest-leeched beyond
a crew-creased sub-moron
case-sensitive sacred neuron's sacrum
boss bowser before beauty betrayed
jesus drunk on jesús juice, cheese-lust jude
weepin soul soup knee-deep in glue
weepin soul coup packaged as boots
reapin soul wheels gone tired to root
creepin sole tiers roost teary-eyed troopes torn
atol bridge toll, dreary-dried dolls stolen
life takin, life makin mud mix in store forlorn
weepin soul sprites in corn till 4
weepin soul sight blinded by ore &/or or
 
 
 
Chasing Ice: The Sixth Extinction
 
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