Apr 12
Potato Man I am descended from a long line of Irish peasants, potato farmers to be more exact, working the land for English plantation owners. One peasant hooked up with the master’s daughter, the master giving his daughter an ultimatum. She chose the Irish peasant, and they were both banished to the new world. And …
Apr 11
from Jazz Fingerings #32 There is no such thing as being comfortable. Birds together cross the sky unmusically but romantically in formation. Lacking information maybe, like justice chased and chaste. One observes the shows that relieve us of responsibility. Would Phil Harper please pick up a white paging phone. Unless relaxing shapes the shaved head of …
Apr 11
jw summerisle is an autistic poet from the english east midlands. a former foyles young poet of the year, they have two chapbooks in print: kinfolk (2022) with black sunflowers poetry press, and the book of bad mothers (2024) with back room poetry.
Apr 10
Defying the Times The red leaf blooms dangling from delicate tree fingers, they incite hope in a gray afternoon where nothing but static hangs in the unbalanced nature of this paled-out world. The softened blossoms glimmer, they glean, they pull the badness from everything and make a teary eye shine with not a cloud of …
Apr 09
NIGHT VISION Outside the dream, a cigarette wedged between my teeth, a woman’s eyes alight on my window, America’s core, perhaps, or a plastic bird – a fusion of a lady of the night and a UFO? And below her neck, and high above the town, a body flares like a tongue of fire making …
Apr 09
Cocaine Blues #189 My friend, Jackson Browne, Tells me I should take Sally, And, sure, he’ll take Sue. Claims there’s no difference, Between the two. But I know far better, Now that I’m not under a haze Brought on by the demon drug. You see, Sally’s tall and thin. Reminds me of Aunt Gert, Before …
Apr 08
Hey, Did I Ever Tell You I’m a Writer? On casual Fridays while most of my co-workers on the office side of the factory wall eschew collared shirts for Tees emblazoned with the insignia of their favorite sports team, I pimp a shirt advertising the cover of my latest short story collection, Thrift Store …
Apr 07
After the Funeral The enormity of death can be too much at times; the finality of it, too overwhelming, so instead of contemplating prayers or words of solace, the void is filed with the ordinary. How important these sweet rituals, these sweet, sweet rituals of routine that once seemed so meaningless, but now hold the …
Apr 07
Persistence of Snowfall Do we ever think of Oedipus in his self-inflicted blindness? Do we think beyond incest and the priapic of kingship to see his suffering flourish in vivid Impressionist colors? The storm that will arrive tonight will camouflage us under snow. We’ll rise at dawn and ignite machines to hack a route through …
Apr 06
Our Serenade Everything was right about the morning. The way she woke after nine hours of solid sleep to discuss her dreams after an “I love you” in place of good morning. We keep each other company in the shower, morning music, the way she stops to kiss me while getting dressed or me holding …
