Excerpts from Dust

by Chris Drew



 

XLVII

sapling paper

bug bite knees

johnny cash

 

XLVIII
 

dead children

homemade granola

days are full

 

LVII
 

a coffee cup left a ring

on my air mattress

 

LXXXIV
 

“how’s that sovereignty?”

“the beige walls?”
boxes and bags all over
(even in the streets;
the kitchens too)
as christmas decorations
(or any holiday’s)
in the attic or basement

like fruit cellar sustenance

ain’t survival a wild drive?
little nail and pin pricks

sticky tack and tape residues

marking affectionate memories

of receiving godly truths in tinsel

and electric lights

unconditional love infinite

of foreign celestial bodies sparkle

order in the pass of time

dreaming childlike effervescence

bygone colors into cryptic forlorn apocalypses

making the best wishes out to everyone

eyeing empty space alone into unbeing

paying homage to

the empty vessels

Read more...

Write comment (0 Comments)

They Make Different Kinds of Lotion for Almost Everything

a poem in six parts by: Adam1

I.

You get to an age where you’re graded
too harshly for staying too the same
while the world changes colors

and staying out late

while your old body ages

like you knew that it would
but you wouldn’t believe it.

You know,
They don’t tell you that in college. No matter how long it takes you to graduate.

 II.

“My eccentricities” he once said sarcastically,
“You wouldn’t believe me,
but when I was the old me,
they used to be pretty delightful.

I used to have nights full

of drugs and of alcohol

and not be this spiteful

eyesore on a bar stool.

Me and my friends used to play and pretend
to be pirates at night with our mouths full.

But now there’s too many ‘we’re not gonna take this’ nights and weekends

caught in the alleys and waste bins

of ‘we’re not gonna take this’ new friends,

 

wearing ‘we’re not gonna take this’ headbands.”

 

Wearing “we’re not gonna take this” expressions

and drinking and grinning discontent

about his parent’s basement

and drinking

and drinking

all weekend.
Until the “I’m not gonna pay for this” kicks in.

Until the cuteness is transmuted to disruptive and belligerent

and “you can’t come back ‘til you dry out”
and “Come on, man, get it together or get out.”
And “All of your friends are getting older

and you’re still throwing
up in the sink

like once a week.”

 

“All of my friends are getting boring.
They’re getting into grad school and engaged to their girlfriends.
And I still wear a shit stained cape into a bar in a small town
‘Cuz I can get away with this,

just like all my other

'we’re not gonna remember this's.

This is getting old.

Read more...

Write comment (0 Comments)

Two Poems

by Geene Feenie
 
 
UNTITLED
 
i begin to compose,
 
its all a joke any way
 
whey and soy, chiecks and bois
 
down on the CCR and the TV still Knockin/
 
Life hard-rockin' troll-stompin'
 
flips and clicks, flips, and trix

 

sing a song to sang sang/ sangria sangre sange
 
let the flow pull up the zipper and drive away in cursive
 
flow through the pinhole and thread stutter0chat  gibberish
 
ohm through the newish moon zoom in on the bluish bloom;
 
UNITY


Cut/...
 
i saw dem today, the sky by gray, day be fly gone by and by down the bayou.
 
Wishing still to be beside her, aching for warmth, yet i know not even whom she be.
 
throw up the past and begin on into the future, wheat grass, and chlorophyll
stomach full of air and pill \\ let the medicine work its way on in let the story Begin again.

 
 
UNTITLED
 
with in the mind of the derangedly sane, were war is not a variable, but a consonant.  Constantly changing..   Pizza in the night sky,
i want a peace.  ae
                                                                                                              of
that pi .   
                      What is the space between two words...  constant consonant variable change
;)
 i am fine..
Write comment (0 Comments)

226

by Harrison Parks


De divina proportione (Your curves are two golden means)


Graph the golden ratio. Mirror it.
Place the two side by side,
And watch your outline bloom.

Behold abstraction, pure & yearning
Beneath your arching hips,
so I genuflect between

Slightly gone wild violets.
You know what I am sad about,
Nightingale? I didn't keep your book --

Its stapled cover, its perfect grey,
Its simple title... its pages full of
Comforting words & 18th century diagrams.


Check Out More From Harrison At The Banter Ship

Write comment (0 Comments)

Three Poems

by Michael Prihoda
 
 
recalcitrant waltz
 
the trees did semaphore
(or was that a strip tease?)
while greedy clouds
ogled their branches.
 
the reasonable sun
shook a fatherly finger at the whole affair,
knowing the moon would disapprove
yet never see 
this recalcitrant waltz.
 
 
make it holy
 
how do you (un)(a)(d)dress
a woman
and make it holy?
 
 
felony
 
stop signs
committing roadside felonies
 
our wicker wheels stop turning;
city skylines through shattered windshield glass
Write comment (0 Comments)