Poetry from abroad

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ImageEye of the storm
Ten minutes to heaven
Abstract love and heady wine
Writers of poetry never
Sleep on airplanes
And winners of fortune never
Bet on a Wednesday
My mother was a tiger
And my father made of sand
We were all born late in winter
Never walked upon dry land
Summer
We all melted into glass
Fused together
Like a burnt and wary accident
On a Tuesday when
No one showed up for work
I was all smiles on Monday
When my father drove me home
By the weekend I was parentless
Naked and alone
I worked through all my problems
I dismissed them one by one
Finally
I was allowed to have some fun
I walked the streets at night
Ran naked in the sun
Empty

Thoughtless
An enemy of the state
A child on the run
Clues
A dozen or so fallen by the wayside
You, for one
A basilisk, a shadow
A nymph or satyr, demon not
Chosen
Truth and fiction
Beauty beyond reason
In bed I lie
In the morning I steal
For you I felt nothing
As for me, nothing was real

9/10/2013

Glucosamine

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A bit of poetry for you today…

086
Glucosamine
Pseudoephedrine
Cranberry bark extract
1000 milligrams and sleep for 2 to 7 days

60 reps
10 laps
90 minutes and rest for 10 to 20
5 days a week and sleep for 1 to 6 days

Ten Hail Marys
One Our Father
Begging on your knees, face to the ground
Wait for the miracle and sleep for 0 to 5 days

Breathe in
Breathe out: 1 – 2 -3 – 4
Warrior One and Ayurvedic tea
Slow down as often as possible and sleep for -1 to 4 days

40 episodes in a week
Who killed Laura Palmer?
Who shot JR?
Grab a bag of Doritos and marinate for -2 to 3 days

Just one little hit
Half a tab
Fifty dollars this week and then no more!
Dream a little dream and wander through wonderland for -3 to 2 days

A shot, a glass, a bottle or six
Late night runs to the store
What was his name?
Take a load off and pretend to be someone else for -4 to 1 day

Tie the curtains shut
Lock the door
Don’t answer your phone and tell all your friends, if any,
That you don’t feel well
Lie on the ground and hope the storm will pass
Your days are numbered
Your allies are few
Watch for fire from heaven and sleep for all your days

04/04/2013

The end of times

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end of timesIt was the end of times A.D. and the world was made anew. Carpetbaggers came to town then, all offering things we needed in the wake of inevitable, quiet disaster. The whole town had been in shock for about a week and a half, but then we realized we had seen it coming, had been expecting this for quite some time now. I thought we would all miss the television but no one did, there was one old man in the village who still knew how to tell stories and he was now the town’s most popular resident. There were no more “foodies”, no crème fraiche or dried goji berries for 8.99 a pound, we were happy when we pulled up a root vegetable and it didn’t break in half.

Winter came early that year though, and the frost nearly killed us. Like pilgrims we considered cannibalism, but didn’t want to go back to the way it had been before the draught. Half of us survived and the other half tried to make the journey to other countries, but on foot and without electronic map devices, we forgot where they were, and none of us could speak any foreign languages anyway.

But we built, slept, and waited, and before long, the engineers returned and the buildings popped up again. Supermarkets and Walmarts came back and we played video games long into the night once more. Three generations passed and we forgot about the draught. We bought up everything we could for 8.99 a pound and we ate cheesecake topped with organic crème fraiche. It would be a thousand long years before the end of times, when we would learn how to make fire, how to dance, and the world would be made anew.

Faraway café

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faraway cafe
Hollow reeds and empty chasms
Settle in for a long night
Rain outside and stars in our eyes
Fairy tales and daydreams
Come unglued
Tinfoil cup and paper mache
House of cards, house of clay
Past illusions finally won
Dancing and drinking til the dawn’s early light
Women grow old, memories fade
Money and time and gradual decay
You’re painted in technicolor,
you don’t miss a beat
If wishes were horses
mine would ride just as sweet
I’m all for equality
The landmine of the 60s
I’m a beggar, a liar,
a thief and a gypsy
Call me St. Valentine
The clothes suit me fine
Prince, pauper, sycophant
Mine

Cassius in Subtopian Magazine

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CassiusA poem about parasites and ideals appears in Subtopian magazine, Vol. 3 [April 2012]. More stuff slated to appear in Subtopian soon, they’re a great new publication based in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. Aside from being very in tune with the content–“Work must describe the in-between nature of modern society, the sub-par sensation that hides behind the routine of every day life, that feeling that we’re all waiting for what comes next…dreaming of utopia and expecting dystopia. …write about how the subtopian society will change into a better or worse version of itself. “–the design elements of the magazine are right up my alley as well. My novelette about a very absurd little subtopian world will make its appearance here next month. Glad to be a part of this pub–great people, art, and stories. Cheers guys.

– Corin

Villanelle

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I built a house

I built a house upon the sand
Bright and beautiful, by the sea
I built it all with my own hand

Built it in a day, on borrowed land
With found materials, and no one to help me
I built a house upon the sand

A faulty bulb, a cheap ceiling fan
A dozen locks and not one key
I built it all with my own hand

No one stopped by, no woman or man
That’s fine; my home was not to be viewed for free
I built a house upon the sand

I became tied to where I stand
Longed to travel, but it was not to be
I built it all with my own hand

I lit a fire, and then I ran
I had been blind, but now I see
I built a house upon the sand
I built it all with my own hand

life extension haikus

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I was found inadequate
By 371 lords
They worked on Wall St.
and were sterile

We tried to breed her
Every summer for the past 15 years
But then the carnival shut us down

life extension

I was down on my luck so
A fifth of Maker’s Mark and
70s sitcom reruns until sleep

What were you thinking?
A duplex, a dog, and
Ride off into the sunset?