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New Poetry, Fiction, Essays

Poetry Part Four

A TASTELESS SOUP

RJ Williams 

 

 

Nothing will be found there…

He said

“I am the universe experiencing itself”

 

Behind the arterial highways

And nerve spaghetti bowls

And compost that looks shapely, pretty,

He and countless on the planet

Search for self.

 

Now too far

From the playground,

Too grown up to remember

That thing that takes the shape

Of someone called “YOU”

From that hole in space

Where all languages stir in

A tasteless soup.

 

 

THE POISON of SUCH PRETTY THINGS

RJ Williams

 

Carribean Blue,

Just yards from shore…

That kind of shallow wading pond

Is what glanced at me.

Never saw the shark shadow

Circle the drain of her pupil.

She gripped that harpoon

How mother’s save falling babies…

Held it level, upright, with no arch.

This was her tropical paradise

Bathed in crayon box colors

Melted on every flower.

She was queen here

And part lava rock, part tsunami.

I can’t swim. And here I feared

A wayward jellyfish all too happy

To touch me.

No, apparently

I have fallen into the volcano.

Skeletons of my likeness

Fossilizing here.

My heart an echo chamber.

I’ll have to get used to

The underbelly of paradise

And the poison

Of such pretty things.

 

THAT TIME LOVE BENT BACKWARDS

RJ Williams 

 

With a roller coaster cork-screw spine

It more than met you halfway,

Arched like the St. Louis iconic monument.

There it was–LOVE–in all its contortionist glory

And all for you.

Fact was, you weren’t ready.

Somehow you were with the catfish, in the murk

Bottom feeding.

Felt worthy, it seems, only of the

Skeletons of things.

Perhaps blind from being tied to

The end still of the last one

Who had cratered your heart.

Left you shell-shocked, still walking zombie-esque

Within the plumes from bombs.

 

It tried to embrace you face-first, love.

When that didn’t work it became a pretzel

Kind of thing and all for you;

Came calling with a firehouse alarm ruckus–

You didn’t answer or…

Help bend it back upright.

 

 


 

Palermo Street

Vicky

 

We lived where the
factories frayed
in a horizon of terraces
where among three generations
I steeped in patterns
of twitching lips
and silent looks between eyes
that ricocheted a language fluent
to the women.
I once regarded Rene from 23
cradling her cup and crying,
being helped home by Aunt Agnes
who’d just read her leaves in the
front parlour where heavy drapes
hung and drawn served only
to thicken the odour
of polish and mothballs
There, in the carved sideboard cupboard
I would delight in odds and ends,
learning even then
about the process of finding
and how that which I sought most
would more than often emerge
from the bottom of a difficult pile.

 

 

 


 

Poco a poco

Sofia Kioroglou

Following a fallow writing period,
Ideas are now raining down on my head
rat-a-tat,
rat-a-tat,
poco a poco

Like machine gun
In Sectional variations
Monophonic in texture

Pen scribbling with staccato accuracy
Trailing its nib in highfalutin octaves
Hither and thither,
to and fro
and all over the place

With terraced dynamics
Through-composed like ballads
Waltzing around the dance floor of my skull

 

 


 

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