Monthly Archives: August 2016

Alton Melvar M Dapanas

Zip Code 9005

Assume

that in the ride from my town

of a century church to you, my east,

dusk will surge the calm:

no road paints, no streetlights.

Conceive

the profanities of your drivers

and passengers in between car lanes

adding to techno,

repetitions of some inborn woe.

Picture

your neighbor’s houses

with shackled sides,

the roofs slouching,

lethargic like the cogon grasses

of your summits and the lambagu trees

of your shores, where once,

your ancient folks dreamed

of a crustacean and a golden fishing net.

Imagine

your dusty town of ancestral houses

faded from the hues

of its nonexistent traffic light

like your once-baby brother’s toys

dropped somewhere

in your backyard, a few spits

from your animal farm, and left out

in the sun for the grasslands

of your years.

Recall

that once, in the same sheet of sky

set in a Bacardi-soaked seaside

teemed with the drunk-and-high,

nonchalance was feigned.

 

Devour

the untold as I offer you silence.

Let us feast.

 

*9005 is the zip code of Balingasag, a town in the province of Misamis Oriental in the Philippines.

 

Extra Service

And so you begin with the dread

of January’s biting cold. The chill

you once loved now a curse

of Lubay-Lubyok. So you meandered

through the pavements

of this closeted dystopian city

in ungodly hours searching

for heat that burns the insides.

There, in a corner of shadows and sweat,

a brown Likalibuta carved

of carnal heavens—a testimony

of the bestial and the celestial in one—

waits for hungers like yours:

He, being the food in Kaptan’s palms;

you, a carnivore for things forbidden.

So in his turning and returning

to the geographies of your meat,

his hands of a million passions

a salvation from this underworld.

Redeeming you, you offered him entrance

to your deepest continents.

So he gives, you take and he takes, you give

because such is nature

between prey and predator,

only this time, both eat

what the other has already eaten.

But there is no escape: nothing lasts.

The hot towel now turned cold

as he leaves holding your bills.

You needed more saving.

 

*Extra service – refers to sexual service offered by personnels of spa and wellness centers; the service being an ‘extra’ from the usual massage they give
*Lubay-Lubyok – (full name: Hanginun si Mahuyokhuyokan): The goddess of night breeze in ancient Visayan mythology

*Likalibuta – a second-generation deity in Visayan myths who is the strongest of all; one of Lidagat the sea and Lihangin the wind’s four children

*Kaptan – Supreme deity in Visayan myths

 

 

 

 His Northern Hemisphere

For Lennard Yeong, 27, Singapore, MasterChef Asia

Those eyes, those naked eyes, piercing, variations

of the dark—charcoal and raven—could speak to me

in Singlish—the British accent no longer the sexiest, lah

as dark as your boyish hair. I wish to dishevel and undo them,

you know, in bed where you might forget, for a time,

that everything you learned from food came from cookbooks;

where I can blow your name on the mole on your neck

breath after breath: That tongue—for once, a nomad—

could taste of umami, as I trace the geometry of your jawline,

pear-shaped, smooth on the edges. I wonder how that chest feels

when pressed against mine or seized on my palms. Those nipples:

heavenly erectile contrast against your fit cobalt blue (sometimes, pewter) shirt.

On your right arm and left ring finger might be names

of loves who have gone wrong.

 

Smile that bony cheek smile, dear, further straightening those brows.

Caress the sauce to sweat, the fish to fluids.

Already, you have fed me.

 

 

 

The Frontseater

The night rushes to end, if as in a hurry

no traffic could pause. Minimum wagers

all sit jammed next to each other,

like canned sardines; the vehicle, too, is part tin

or is it aluminum? In this twenty-peso ride

roaring to life, the silenced part between what’s budots

and the sweaty slumber is all they end up with.

Is it still JaDine’s timeslot on TV?

Or is it Boy Abunda’s turn for gabfest? The millenials ask

as the ancients are left on the AM frequency.

Lined up sitting in cellophane-covered foams,

they pass on calloused hands some coined currencies,

which must’ve been worth a tenth of a day’s work.

One by one, they go down, each to his own route—

now by foot, reciting muted prayers—or wretched whims?—

petitioning to deaf divinities,

pleading for better days.

 

 

*Budots – a form of disco music that is a mixture of ethnic hums and Western rap

*JaDine – a famous loveteam in the Philippines featuring onscreen partners James Reid and Nadine Lustre

*Boy Abunda – considered as the Philippine’s king of talk shows

 

 

English for the Non-native: The Five Senses

Begin with the silence of cubicles:

 

Our lips twitched colonial accents

as fingers latch to foreign lexemes.

Our Skype emoticons remain muted.

Within these bland sundering walls

are stares—timid but voyeured.

Added to this litany of unsaid words

is your scent like the first rain of June.

 

Let me ask you now:

How do you remain unknown

to the language of my touch?

 

 

Alton Melvar M Dapanas:-   from Cagayan de Oro, studies Literature and writes in English and Visayan. His poems have beenAlton Melvar Dapanas published in Dagmay Literary Journal, Kabisdak Cebuano Literary Lighthouse, We Are A Website (WAAW) New Literary Journal, among others. Recently, he has been anthologized at Sakayang Papel: Anthology of Bisaya Poetry. Currently, he works as a writer and copyreader for an urban lifestyle e-zine. He also blogs for a Geneva-based NGO. Online, he teaches intermediate to advanced English to East Asian professionals. He is affiliated with Bathalad Mindanao and the Nagkahiusang Magsusulat sa Cagayan de Oro (NAGMAC). Born a caffeinated vegan-metamodernist in parentless houses, he has a thing for gray sky mornings, awkward drunk-and-high moments, and apple-flavored beers.

Adam levon Brown

Porcelain

Discombobulated Neurons

Fanatical, Farcical,

Squeeze

The nectar

Of paleontology

Into the decayed mouth

Of yet another corpse

Covered in rags.

 

The Ganges

Fills with the blood

Of Gods at the feet

Of the altar

Hidden behind

The moose lodge

That your father

Attends on a regular basis.

 

Violins     (albert sir pic)

The sound of slow violin makes me weep

But the sound of your voice carries me through fires

untamed as the outside world invites me to play

“Should I stay or should I go?”

The uneven mess that is my hair

says come closer, the empty glass

of coffee on my computer desk

yells at me, “Have another cup!”

The Earth is screaming at me, “Don’t waste!”

Divinity in my ears, saying to be a better person.

Narcissistic thoughts pop up and drag me through the snow,

while everything

surrounding me makes me humble.

 

Dream – It’s not illegal

Defining moments

never cease

 

The smell of

ginger pumpkin

placed in olfactories

 

Destiny? No

 

Human Behavior

decides,

not fate

 

The door

sits open

 

inviting all

to take a peek

but never enter

 

When will the sun

explode, who is

to say?

 

Make memories

you would be jealous of.

Adam levon Brown is a poet and author residing in Eugene, Adam3Oregon, United States.He enjoys the outdoors, photography, and cats. He has been published several places Including Section 8 magazine, Writing Raw, and The Bitchin’ Kitsch.

 

Don Beukes

In One’s Hand

In one’s hand

deeds could be controversial,

My existence is ambivalently universal

all intentions are inherently pure

yet beyond yesterday

have regrettably caused

apocalyptic dismay,

Millennia have passed yet

a biblical blast from the past

left scathing scars,

The power to make a stand

still lies in one’s hand,

I ably struck a brother dear in fear

overcome by jealousy

it remains my scandalous

pitiful legacy,

My self immature

erratically erupts my nature.

 

In one’s hand,

Hibernates a power grand,

With one swift calculating gesture

I may cause centuries of hate to fester

only I have the power to influence

my actions lead to humanitarian negligence,

With my finger on an atomic button

I alone can end you all of a sudden

in solar explosive light

blinding cataclysm,

I am however

guided by your wisdom,

I do admit

I have a tender touch,

My outstretched virginal hand

loving you too much

so here I am

holding your pre-marital hand,

Sweet heavenly promises

my weak nemesis,

With this ring

my love for thee confess,

A ceremony

meant to seal our

holy matrimony

yet there you are

quivering shivering,

Dreading the loss of liberty lost.

 

In one’s hand

might be locked a shameful past,

My appearance reveals secret scars

of marauding battles

burning shackles ,

Outstretched

I expose sun-kissed blisters

violet sores throbbing

from perilous persistence,

Stained with indigo ruby veins

of unspeakable pains

nothing gained,

In

one’s

hand…

 

 

The Buzz

I hope I never lose this buzz

such a welcome fuzz

like a shiny mirage

organic words in my charge,

Creative juices flowing bubbling

meandering rushing

literary sting,

It entertains

frame by frame

obstacles looming

refusal painful shame,

Critical whispers fuel

my pen sword pistons

oiling my dictionary persistence,

Curiosity creating

literary animosity

resulting in a celebratory

cultural ferocity.

This jovial

uplifting poetic buzz

now my daily

determining cross

keeping me afloat

a welcome load

adorning me in a multi-cultural

creative coat

inspired by echoes of time

creating artistic language sublime

weaving

knitting lexical knots

engineering timeless

eternal clocks.

I hope I never lose this buzz

such a necessary

never-ending crush

of ideas

quelling deep-seated

fiendish fears.

 

You See I See 
You see a new born baby

as just another mouth to feed –

I see the miracle of life continuously

reminding us of a spiritual need –

You see a misbehaved child

shrieking for attention – I see

a young soul craving for a loving

touch, not asking for much – You

see the decay in an autumnal display –

I see a necessary cycle of nature

securing a floral furture – You see the

frosted smile of a neighbour as a rude

gesture – I see a kind attempt to keep

relations content – You see a different

colour skin as a threat – I see an

inherited biased fear, fed by parental

ignorance and neglect – You see a

thorn as a natural weapon of scorn –

I see nature’s centurion protecting a

floral aromatic haven – You see

depression as a weakness – I see

a victim of abuse, a soul bruised –

You see a lion killing its prey as an

evil creature – I see a predator

following nature’s intention, inherent

instinct to feed its offspring – You see

a refugee as a menace to your

culture – I see a victim of extremism

urgently needing to flee, in a

desperate hurry – You see a beggar

as human fodder – I see a person

shunned by society’s discriminating

collar.

You see me

as a curiosity –

I see you drenched

in pitiful prejudice –

Acidic animosity.

I am Refugee

Another foreign face
just another alien place

a futile survival rat race

taking place at stellar

pitifull pace but do not

mind me – I am just in

a desperate horrific

hurry as you brand me

refugee –

Endless footage document

my failing crumbling courage

desperation fuels my

hesitation to abandon my

birthright habitation –

Circumstance limit my

human circumferance

insatiable lust for

power my hinderance –

Echoes of loved ones
I lived for once

maimed savagely shamed

their humanity callously

claimed – Culture ravenously

raptured a nation’s soul

violently fractured

extremist beast disturbingly

nurtured me its feast

devouring my very nature

a godless heinous creature –

Global coverage diarise
my demise humanitarian

disguise expose your EU

lies – Herded cleverly

channeled you pass me along

like a nationless centurion

my personal story

my passport to humanitarian

glory – A perilous journey began

with family accross land and sea

devastating heart – wrenching

loss of an infant son lost

tossed out watery grave

choking humanitarian cloud

political fallout the daily shout
I am what it is all about

fractured status sudden realisation

how much I am hated – Trump

prophesising armageddon

in the US what a shameful mess

branding me useless

what planet is this ?

My religion your chosen
confusion your hateful rhetoric

no illusion – Merkel shaming

the UN her passion humanely

driven – Cameron foolishly

debating his conscience flaking

excuse my perceived

intrusion – Your bias not your

 

intention I was just never

mentioned my background

whispered in scriptures

historical fractures –

Made to sound like leeching

maggots have you bothered

to ask what I’ve got to give ?

A talent to share
maybe a useful gift

turn your prejudiced stare

you don’t really care what

I can achieve –

No thanks remove your

untimely white flag

hankerchief and if I seem

ungrateful well that

will be my own grief –

My journey now painfully
perilous hoplessly penniless

what existence is this

what does it mean to be free ?

I ask you this –
For

I

am

refugee

 
 
Don Beukes is a retired teacher of English and Geography, originallyDon Hat Crop-2 from Cape Town South Africa and was born, raised and educated in the last two decades of Apartheid. His poetry deals with themes such as racism, death, conception, womanhood, prejudice, nature and other global issues. His poems have been published in venues such as Dissident Voice, Prachya Review, Indiana Voice Journal, Tusk Magazine, Poebita Magazine, Dead Snakes, Duane’s Poetree and Syzygy Journal

 

 

Phillip O’Neil

 

DEMONSTRATIONS

Downtown’s littered with the demands

of yesterday’s demonstrations,

sundry fountains, coffee cups, pastry shop

wrappers and photo-stated sheets

passed by the jaundiced masks of life’s wearied worn

creased by the years of dictatorship’s heels dug deep

overseeing the overcrowded tin trams

charity hand-outs from a neutral state

fleeting from white nights to black days

dimly seen through two stroked haze.

 

bodies disabled by a state, contorted

and restructured in lifelong plans

a long tatooed Pierrot tiers of sad cafes

supping gritty coffee and censored thoughts.

and I’ve spent too long here

searching for the heart of the city

for sparks of colour in the flotsam and jetsam

rubbled history.

 

but I dream in revenge of exotic land agents

beaches, fruit and string bikinis

pyramids and ports, the hubbub of pipe gardens

the brouhaha of bazaars where a loved one

bobs up and down in the crowds

suffused with silk road perfumes

but always waking as the ticket agent opens.

 

Instead I go to a gallery

exhibiting an oil church

sinking into orange sand,

a poster for Virginia Woolf

canvasses burning holes in walls

in rooms suffocating in high summer

unconditioned heat.

 

I skirt around burning bronzes

twisting in a bombed out church

paying the fame for assassination

curious students swing around like

drunk moons in orbit

Dante dancing in kelp.

 

 

TRYST TRISTE

This half way borrowed no-man’s land
of an attic suite
feeling so high, so bitter
in our correspondence
between truths in
this compromise facility,
filled with rags, pets,
and uneaten takeaway foil.
Was it Indian or Italian love we made last night?

I only remember later my jealousy of your dreams
watching your eyelids flicker a future

my own sleepless self
smoked on the balcony of this diced up lighthouse
above the Medusa wrangle of addictive tracks
running like bowels during the night
held by timetable glue.
We all have our departure dates to think hard on
in our temporary tarot house
built with shards of light from
smashed glass
reminders of the latest fight
slamming doors and pirouetting paper
strewn round the rugs like childrens’ drawings
in a Samson blinding day planning our exits
for a day, for a life, still somehow egging
for the child who’ll decorate
your own flat’s doors and fridge
contrary or perhaps aware
of our listened to Walls and Bridges.

 

THE LAST THOUGHTS OF HENRY O’LEARY

Rocked to calm by the old ship’s clock in the library

Grown a little green, a little dank, with disuse.

A dusty schooner sails in a bottle on the desk,

Almanacs and Wisdens under a side-burned Victorian face,

Oil lamps, stuffed owls and an old, carved rack of pipes,

Decanters once filled with sage, distilled advice

And the thinner ticking of a wristwatch left on an armchair

Sporting horsehair – like a gigolo’s arms

By a chess-set left midgame, armies impotent in the gloom

The blacks are carved as Persian so the whites must be Greeks.

Around the theatre of curtains, heavy as rainforests;

Last drawn after a storm years before

A scattering of papers, scores scratched with ink

The last penned thoughts of Henry O’Leary, smeared with his very last drink.

 

“I am waiting,” wrote O’Leary “with the board soldiers, waiting

On the anaemic web of fingers and the dawn;

The green, sick sight of sun when my senses crack like kindling,

Cogs ill-fitting the gears of light: toothing rusks

Of a pendulous moon-time machine, for last night I dreamt, no dream

Last night I slept and woke. Ah, last night torn to shreds by the captain

Keel hauled through the exacting dark

Clawed back with ribboned hands, around

And around, cut stitched and cut, but

Day breeds an absence of a pregnant night

That disappears into a place it’s never been

With the rattle of bugs and fans of moths, night pilots

In drunken love with the come hither globes

Flick through a memory of something missing now, and there’s

Nothing so pressing as nothing; a migraine glimpse and it’s away

Night shift over, leaves just the ghost of a scent for day.

 

“Look for clues,” says the detective in the ghost of a dream,

“Look round the room,” he mutters, tapping his pipe, breathless,

“Look for clues to the struggle; something stained,

Fingerprints on a glass. Listen for the echo of the night.”

Lying back he remembers the ship’s cabin rocking

Enough to swing a rusting lamp over the captain.

“The same one that drowned you over the years,”

Ponders the mouth pulling on the churchwarden –

The mate who’s worked every ship on the sea

Led sailors to sirens or planks with a pull rank smirk and smile

Sent to the lockers the great untapped,

Watched riptides send their last globes of breath

Where they dome, gleam, surface and burst

As they head to where no man hears his own verse.

The captain and first mate travelled the seas for the breath of the victims they’d drowned

Peer down into the deep from the slug of a hull – a fresh black clot in the sea.

Steering a path between the two darks, the dead and powerless worlds

That harbour between the first and last rites,

Search for the judas shine in the sea-rock swallowed slipping channel,

The spume and froth of another wrecked passage.

And they trawl up the catch, shaking bodies in nets

Notes of a wayward symphony, dissonant chords in their cleft

From the bed of genius lamps, lying with spirits

Of galleons, corsairs, frigates and smacks

The conspiracy of bracketing rocks, plotting sisters astride

The guiding lamps in the hidden plots needing dark as sound needs air

The stolen spark that everywhere tips its hat at the eternal light

Highlights the hackled giant seeking noon in his unhappy night.

 

The bells outside O’Leary’s toll six in the village square

And a flock of black laced women step onto

The cold grey flagstones of Our Lady Under the Water

Muttering over beads for the loss of their husbands and sons

Their Mariners and Fishermen, Icareans and corsairs

Ingenues or worldly wise, armed to the wings or heels

Racing to the dog-star, kiting in high precept’s face

Listening to the fading sweep of wings, falling

Feathered swipes into the deep where,

Here – racked between the two lights we call dark

The trawlers hunt to snuff the spark that altarboys count out

Padding, guiding passions from bushel bodies, poker hard

In the chapel where boats burn in memory of the crews that ran aground.

Burning iotas of candles neck in the heat for bodies that may never be found.

 

In the screamed in, faithless moments when shipwrecks

Send curls of smoke that sting the eyes, send tickling fingers to the throat

The memory of a mission fades, grows flat in pictures

A dreadnought’s oil smells of paint, not sea or iron

We prowl deserted streets with lanterns for our manic transports

Dull inmates submitting to the walled in hex

The city and the prison knocked up by the twins

With vigilant guards and their dig in claws and kisses

Till the asylum falls in the lantern’s spread

The light pool of freedom seeps from a shattered head.

Ah! The delirious bullying game, parties turned to tears

A world marshalled by the brute sticks and stones,

The class patsy tied to a tree, the first knife stabs the despised.

Sticks and stones will break his bones and needles stick in his eyes.

 

 

And the sailor squints at the totems and taboos through his one good Judas eye

In the condemning cell where he divides his leaking truth

And sorts the coloured rags of childhood and the dressings he wears now.

And in the gangrene of his spirit, watching the sick light of day

Retch in through the portholes in the steady pitch and yaw

He sips from the eye filled glass, reflecting on the bend

Watching the time lapse film of his dance and shivering end.

 

And the detective broods over his mosaic of clues, tapping his pipe:

Thinking in time with the swing of the lamp

With a flapjack mind flipping thought after thought

Resolving all into an endgame as bishops and knights

Coral at synapses, discuss regicide and compromising queens

Arbiter in the civil war of images bred in the sweat of a night

Switched into a heresy by the uniform scales of day.

This is our practice room for a concert that will or may never be played

Pretenders to the baton beating out a count and in the rock and sway of the boat,

Where the swinging hearts of the pendulum clocks, and the semaphore hands in the watch,

Wave at coils that grind and quake with betrayal of sentries marking time,

And the sailor’s pulse quickens, stops, is no more. And that was his great untapped.

Drowned over the years in the domed sea sucked by the clot of his boat

Railing in the drink that drowned a whole world out.

 

In the wake the detective draws back the drapes to infinities

And daylight drops in on the captain’s stiff corpse

Nods sagely at the sailor killed by the frame that’s tailored far too well

And diving too deep last night he burst

Not controlling the eternal in his cups but, mindful of his moves

He dived too deep for the genius lamps that dot the bed with the wrecks

Near the cave where the mad conductor beats tattoos on the rocks

Racks up a score with a flock of notes that hang like crows on barbed wire.

Around this field the cruciform Sally excuses the whole race away

It is teatime, always teatime when Gods choose to die

In gardens slowed by gin and the drone of bumbling bees

Oil slick legs, pollen headed notes carrying tunes through the air.

As the twins tease dialectics from the totem-tabooing cross

Wracking the father’s brick of a heart in a day still hungover with loss.

 

And with the twins about their task in the garden,

We sink to kill our lights and foil the glass ship by denial, not stealth

Then wonder why the night fishermen hunt in their whalers

Barbing eyes and hearts and with crooked fingers

Reel us keenly to the boat bobbing madly in the drink

Tearing the body like bait over shells in the snark hunt for the whole.

Haul up the chaotic scores in steel meshed nets

Cutting into flesh and the clusters of notes rallying into a theme

Calloused hands knocking out a beat as the crew

Sort through the catch, knock into frame, play to an end

Busily into form and birth –    and the night springs a link or a leak

Tossing out tunes from the jelly blessed by dark and clues

As pale light pours in through the crack in the drapes

And things resume their other selves in other shapes.

 

The aphasic morning, dull as in a new country – excluded by dress, skin and speech

Deafening light knocks sense and teamed laser surgeons, midwives to the day

Cut up what had been whole, hooligans unthreading the net into the drink,

Pouring a symphony down the drain with swift, clean cuts at the staves

Clogging the plug hole with black-eyed beans of notes

The bracketing darks are dismissed with the sun

And our own dark is dressed up in a shift

But still ticks the caged eye of the clock

A recollection of a threatening hull

A lantern burning in the deep.

Here the pen snakes off

Body of red wine,

Small ink head

O’Leary, sailor,

Bathetically,

dead.

 

I HATE YOU, DON’T LEAVE ME…

…cos I’m borderline

and some times you ring me at the wrong time.

Stay!

Live and love with me

get your own place but not too close to here.

I’m foreign I need to know

come to bed with me

like my ex who managed it every night

why can’t you be as loving as him?

He went to the gym

caress me eat me like you used to

‘Please please me oh yeah like I please you’

is playing.

I’ve got a migraine. Why can’t you feel the pain?

The rain falls against the window

you promised to mend

like an end to my own flawed cunt can’t

send me complete away from you.

 

I’m tired of you and your games

come play with me again

I’ll be your goddess Godiva

strip myself down before you

but hold your horses

I’m not ready for that in this flat

I call a bogus home

‘Love me two times I’m going away’

from your plastic ideals

go with that bitch you ogled the another night

that prolongs my fight

night after night with you accomplice

give me what I want and need

beyond the taste of your salty seed

I’m all at sea

fuck me sweet but hard.

 

Don’t leave me with this barbed wire strife

strafing guns even when I go over the top

be bop jazz me don’t let me alone

why do you stay silent while I grieve

believe me it’s a bee hive inside my art

that isn’t pullulating with my core

I want to be free of you angelheart

but touch me three times before I go

before you go with that lazy tale

away to a bitch that takes your shit

cos I’m no more going to be your bit

on the sidewalk of your dreaming desire

to be something higher than my stupid soul on fire

take your books and gifts you gave

whenever you decided to misbehave

or gave me in charity moments

to secure my praise.

 

I hate you but just don’t leave me alone

because without you by me

I’m cold as marble though tough as a rock

I don’t need the shock of your goodbye

and I’ll hunt you down however far you

fly away.

 

I’ll bang on your door after

you’ve followed me to the station

just to be sure I’ve gone

when you know I’ll be just a little smile the next day

and we’ll make love like in the early days –

your Jewish looks your pretty curls

I’ll be again your little girl

I’ll come with you in unison

have you ever thought what might become

in a year or many

with a child snug inside my belly

so I have a replica of you.

 

I hate you, don’t leave me and forget your black dogs

I flush them down toilets with my menstrual blood

if you don’t believe me just listen to what I say

I ain’t never ever going to go away

go have a drink I see your empty glass

a small reminder of our past

I translate names for you my exiled lonely boy

cos I know you think of me as a boy or toy

but how many times have I told you

I’m the only real woman you will ever meet

all the others may seem sweet but you’ll fuck them

wearing my face as a mask. If only we could make it last

now go back to your books and think of romantic loves

never the blocked kitchen sink

I may not be whole but here I am

ready to stand beside my man I think.

 

I love you but stay away from this temptress

so far away with a litany of failed affairs

I wouldn’t mind if you didn’t care

perhaps as you say I’m cracked inside

but that’s something I never tried to hide

my outbursts and throwing statues at you

were nothing but my imagined infidelities

so let me in ‘cause I forgot my keys

I will bang all night till you give relief

I am what I am and those are double.

 

Don’t hate me for loving you,

you’re one of a kind

blinker my eyes or leave me blind.

 

I hate you don’t leave me

but don’t let me be

I’m one of our couple

so constant in trouble

I’m a model, don’t you see that?

and soon I’ll grow old

just don’t leave me out in the cold.

 

I hate you don’t leave me

I’ll take therapy

there’s still a chant within me

I’ll rain inside until you’re hard

and then I’ll leave

make you pleasure yourself

till you believe

I’m the only one

to conceive

and when that happens

you’ll think

pleasure and hell have something shared

and your spit and semen

well fuck me until it happens

leave love on our dirty laundry

but I’ll get you in the end

so fend off your desire, for now.

 

There are people some friends some not

who see our stupid Gordian knot

so do your Alexander thing

and cut me through without a blink

I don’t think that you’ll cut me through

that easy though

as I’ve grown up with more knots inside

I have you like a twin brother

not so hard to reconcile.

 

I’ve watched you in mirrors and naked

we are les enfants terrribles

it can never work

without a smirk on both our faces

I want a divorce and you inside me

penning your bloody signature with my own

I know I don’t own you

and sure as hell you don’t me

just come over for one more unprotected swing

I love you don’t hate me for saying these things.

 

  Philip O’Neil, born in the UK worked as a journalist and editor philipfor a number of newspapers and magazines for 20 years. He has worked in the UK, Belgium, Czech Republic, The Balkans and the US and also has had his photographs published in over a dozen publications. Meanwhile he published two collections of poetry ‘Riera’ and French polishing (Alexander Press) He currently lives in Prague writing a follow up to his novel “Mental Shrapnel’.

Daniel Moskowitz

Ecoside

They felt
That it was necessary
To Sacrifice Environmental Concerns
In order to Develop the Economy,
But they forgot
That the Sustainability of the Environment
Permits
The Economy to thrive.
So,
Ultimately,
The Consequence of Environmentally Unsustainable Development
Is Environmental Destruction
And Economic Collapse.
The Earth can’t support Life
And the Economy
Can’t support Families
Any more

 

Escort to Heaven

When Jacob Epstein died,
Rabbi Arthur Cohen presided over his funeral.
After the Mourners recited Kaddish,
Family and friends were all allowed
To share their impressions of the Deceased.
First, Jacob’s wife, Leah spoke.
“Jake was the biggest Cheapskate….”
The Biggest Tightwad I’ve ever known,”
“But I loved him even though he was a stingy Bastard!”
Then, Jacob’s son, Noah Epstein,
Spoke to the Congregation and Guests.
“To be honest, I felt that I never really knew my Dad.”
“I don’t feel that I ever really connected with him at all.”
“I wish I could say that I loved him, but his mind”
“Was always on other things besides me.”
Then, Jacob’s daughter,
Ruth Epstein spoke to  the Group.
“Dad was cool in some ways, but he liked to flirt with my friends.”
“Isn’t that kind of creepy?”
“His behavior caused me to feel embarrassed”
“I wish he could have been more discreet.”
Then, a mysterious, young, Mexican Woman
Spoke to the Group of Mourners.
She was so stunningly beautiful,
With bewitching eyes, and dark, earthy complexion.
Jacob’s Family, Business Partners,
And the Congregants of Beth Shemesh Synagogue
All Suspected that this Woman must have been.
Jacob’s mistress.
They began whispering into each other’s ears.
She introduced herself.
“My Name is Guadalupe Herrera.”
“I was very close with Mr. Epstein.”
“He always did everything he possibly could to help me.”
“I knew that you people, who act”
“As if you were close to him,”
“Really hated his guts,”
“But I tried to comfort him……however  I could.”
” I constantly feared that Mr. Epstein”
“Would sink into a dangerous cycle of addiction”
“To Alcohol and Drugs.”
“When he fell into a Panic, I would feel compelled”
“To stay by his side even if I had to lie with him all day.”
“Many of you probably wish”
“That Mr. Epstein would go Straight to Hell,”
“But I know my Lord, Jesus Christ will Escort him”
“Straight to Heaven”
“Where I am sure I will meet him someday.”
At that, Guadalupe Herrera
Made the Sign of the Cross on her chest
And burst into tears,
The Family, Business Partners and  Congregants
Of  Beth Shemesh Synagogue
All Fell Silent
In a Collective Gasp of Shock!

 

  

Syria (The Mantra of Nihilists)

To Hell with all Facades of Civilization!
To Hell with Humanity!
To Hell with Spirituality!
To Hell with Compassion!
Let’s just make Money
By profiting off the deaths
Of Innocent People instead!

danielDaniel Moskowitz

He is a revolutionary poet .