Surrealist Poems By Gregory Wallace

Gregory Wallace is a poet and artist living in northern California. He is author of The Return of the Cyclades. His work has appeared in Black Scat Review, BlazeVox, Danse Macabre, Sonic Boom, Clockwise Cat & Five 2 One. He has a Bachelor of Arts in English Literature and a Master of Arts in Creative Writing.

SLEEPING EARTH

women gatherers chloroform tulips cold unfolding

sleeping earth a sphinx behind night blood

like dust dolls around velocities

honeysuckle verified drift charcoal

urges shake sleep pillars watering sunken lines

raised surges trolley clinical the anti-now

shadow flows in universal horse cinder

microscopic to illuminate mist flame

cloud flower forbidden and

pale car curved your woman from glass direction

sometimes finger assassinate the sleeping police

nymphs enchanter on chestnuts

banner to lands with thermostatic clouds

princess child happily exposed snow space ashes

light birds of Night touch earth shadows

carbon crocodiles lances between distended rusting

SPRING SOLDIERS

Your glittering tree sack embroidered spring soldiers

pumpkin carpeted herring

emerald crowns with another women

hummingbirds passed angel whiteness from scepter in admirable tombstone

the frog hands in curve from curled secrets

diagonally pink her kisses trailing tinted pilots

snow eyes of gently noises glittering

boat wooden for Valhalla in eyes against slow red sunbeam helmet

on sky gas with aluminum wing

spectral lizard above anthracite blooms

wild armor legislation closed and angels canoe

across forest mist and procession by midnight sea

small emplacements under pink skeletons

glistering trees as cold breath of breached powder sunset

birth forbidden stones and small soul sets sleeping golden with glittering watering

Your silver secret serves small insect suit

shady stars wanders plastic edge

eye sunken with cinder or throat

the coffin of body is key tobacco

another fragile shake on princess painted child

cold early clouds places gold window on fleshy television

imperishable pebbles past cunning avenues

red moon sings of green nymphs brightness

phantom pauses leaning paper banner of replaced in sun bodies

STEEL FOR CROW IN EARTH

Steel for crow in earth

as girl blooms wind soul sets sail

between Tassels of magician when sailor poisoned on her travels

kills is crowns and the

hammering pulls honeysuckle across armor tinted pump

pink water colored vapor

earth in silver always rain

April sun past on rainbow/

poplars glide red and chasing fireworks

beneath guest islands gently snowing the body sleep

what are poppies crow ...

winged memory and midday noises to fell ghost swords

chimney in ghost shake under police echo

curved animal around grass and swabbed herring

sleep propped cornflakes on frozen zigzag

smiling chloroform replaced restless outcry in meadows multiform

restless microscopic fish perfumes

the touch from skirts hope for another perfumed flags

she kisses small birds every evening

feathers make cheeks her slow rising flame

mermaid milk in bare eyelids

lighted crystal comets and your animal hats snow off crows

CONCEAL HER LISTENING PURE

Borneo filled forest clouds beyond pillowed bodies

savage in grave with small curled tube

sentinels release curved for all pillars scalded

public following ring women and emerald sea garlands

or beautiful drift birds with small boulevards and icy procession

then night like glass snow by golden pilots

watering flames of animals radiant

gatherers of tombstone ardent with constellations

his coat unfolding clouds reborn

intimate frog pushing lily in palm pipes

loud umbrella offerings silent thunder angel

curlew glides against the steel cat

ashes warming lizard boxes with crows

my monoxides girls burnt the gently painted sea

a pink shop shudders in flames over cactus  

foam finger adorned phosphorescent lines

carbon shines like aluminum skeletons painted by sherbets

trolley in quivering noises

enchanter ambled rays of fireplace arches

labeled tyrannical cloud white as sack ember

FLAMING STEPS

Flaming steps spot shining rooster

lion pool not already listening to cluster

horizon on background of lozenges

multiplication table bit  the creamy mountain

and can you hear rain?

elevating gasoline would singe fluttering situation

rafters drizzle heron sweeten

air dangers as bluebird springs light woods

distracted poets just compare charming flamingos

every deadly hummingbird devoted giddiness with climbing

in what different owls labors is raining inward

plural street arrive advance that very resolution

screams little seeds and come the smaller end

and more sexy in the speed of falcons

sometimes they linger in stone problems

rain descends in tubes that looks to the blotter

choice of trouble is circle of eternally thickened stamp

attentive polygon avoided curls from head behind you hair

bright skull listens to morning eggshell

a terrible cypresses bent on spectators brought cheese

Desdemona shining interior located rectilinear future

Twelve Poems About Donald J. trump

These are the 12 Donald trump poems I wrote for the Paper Fingers event at 317 Art Collective on March 30, 2019. The event introduced the public to mechanical typewriters of all eras, and allowed them to use the machines. On the second night 11 writers were given the writing prompt by host David Pedersen "There is no such thing as free rent," and began typing. Zombie Logic Press collected those pages, along with pages typed by the general public, and combined it with the artwork of local artists, and compiled a literary zine that was available two weeks later. We sold every one of those copies last night at Art Scene. It was a great experience. I thank everyone who participated. These are the pages Jesus Correa created with my twelve poems about Donald J. trump. He used Dracula because, as he said, he couldn't bear to see an image of trump. Zombie Logic Press on Facebook 

Poems By Cameron Gorman

Cameron Gorman is Intern, Wick Poetry Center, Senior Editor, The Burr, Editor-in-chief, Luna Negra, Former Editorial Intern, POZ

conveyor

i’ve been waiting a while

to write this one down,

so i can’t remember

all the things

piled on the side of the check-out line,

strawberry chapstick and candy, gum,

tiny tin bottles of WD-40,

wipes and tissues, maybe cards, and

i am tired-sad, and

my eyes sag under the weight of

the couple beside me,

waiting to buy a maple twist.

ah! I remembered that,

The maple twist, and he said,

i haven’t had one of these in years,

just years,

and i was stuck ahead,

staring at the reese’s and twix bars and

skittles, you don’t say much, and i know it’s

because you know i will cry, or yell,

scream at you and make them grasp away

from the check-out line,

plastic bags to thank

and helium

to hold until you fall.

and now, ah, i remember,

and here we are, yes, i remember,

how the fluorescents bore down, and i

felt your hand in my hand, and i

swallowed poison in my throat, and i

saw the conveyor belt and i

wondered if whoever made it

was happy.

french toast casserole

she hates ruining paper,

hates ruining paper

snow white, once white,

now full of her footprints,

scratchings, the first brush of chapstick,

imprinted with her lips,

and somehow, she wants

her new skin back, her,

standing in the thrumming

hospital blues,

waiting to touch

the only thing she ever had as pure,

not yet olive from the sun,

raw and unbitten,

uncut, unmuddied,

a dream of a dream of a

childhood dream,

it was never that creamy and freckled,

not loved and brushed,

and when her hand

reaches for that skin,

she knows should she touch it,

no, she can’t touch it.

the crying and thrashing,

and she does,

and now

nothing, nothing,

nothing is

there.

to the guidance counselor’s office, 2011

because I don’t think that I should leave her in there,

should I?

shaking like that,

crying and wailing for something to stop.

stop what? what can we do?

“i haven’t slept in days,” she tells me,

“i’m so tired.”

i want to help her, and you know that,

but what can you do except

show her framed photos of the counselor’s sons,

football giants,

a ticking, sterile clock,

and a door covered in the faces of kids from Sandy Hook,

there so he can point them out, and say,

“that’s who you should cry for.”

i don’t want to leave her there,

i watch myself walk by,

and i shouldn’t care, i can’t,

but she’s faded into the timeline of life,

burned into the screen of sleeplessness

like a light bulb’s ghost,

weeping stuck inside itself

on a kirlian day.

fleeting

she’d not dare

bite the peach

sink her teeth into the

flesh of the

moment

if she knew that

the rapture

the sweetness

the euphonic speaking

was

the fuel of the longing

was a blaze only

kindled

by each passing

minute

the sureness of loss

growing more

and more

certain

more painful and

bleeding

sanguineous and

beating

by the halcyon

kingfisher blue

of the present

the sweet, sticky

love of the 

now