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Sunday, August 28, 2016

Four Poems By Adam Engel

Adam Engel lives in NYC, where he studied and taught at several universities, administered corporate systems, published numerous poems, stories, essays, articles and four books, Topiary, Cella Fantastik, and I Hope My Corpse Gives you the Plague, and most recently, root (Oliver Arts & Open Press, 2016).

Poet Adam Engel

Here
Here: where parents outlive children: fathers weep over puddles that once walked as sons.
Words stick like glue in the throat:  despite recorded sightings of ether-phrases in-between: you know: like physicists see particles where most see nothing but what’s “really there.”
The laughing ones who drank us under tables: under ground now: cold as stone: nibbled by creatures nourishing their young (yet more moist life: tubular: revolting).
The dead are gone yet debates persist: unsettled: round after round.
For instance: the woman on the beach -- no longer slim: young: pretty on the sand --  compelled Yesterday to Dream lubricious rumbas --  roses crushed in tango teeth -- around the pretty young girl on the sand.
Better yet:
The man in the gray fedora chased a woman whose derringer held secret data: why do men crave females in pheromone sombreros? 
They stopped: embraced: tip-toed through Georgia: eloped under UFO-light to star-struck Tennessee.
These “occurrences” are what we see feel  touch – not physicists plucking quanta from dark metal: or sentences silent in deep tissue summoned to speech by poets (who hear them slither through gray-matter like worms).
“Here” is a chain of painful links that will endure until the final syllable is swallowed by the fattest wettest life.


Below

And yet another dumb protagonist: all inner life: asocial: dwells in tunnels built for trains the City has outgrown: forgotten. 

He dreams in darkest sanctuary. Remembers.  How long since the sky?  Tunnels above him and The City above the tunnels and the sky above the City.  Space.  Stars and darkness beyond the Sun he hasn’t seen in months.  Maledictions of his species and the parasitic others that remain.  Rats aloof:  big as bears and vicious.

She comes to him with food procured by runners who deal daily with the light and traffic: hands and markets: of Above.  He and She will never scavenge among them in the light:  never among them in the noise.  No: not again.

Better to Live -- He and She -- than to Survive.



After the After

So in this Nation of celebrities: schnooks: has-beens: never-beens: writers: programmers: hackers: convicts: executives: serfs: Information Architects and all manner of Data manipulators and killer-cop-thieves -- a Nation too big for one to know much less understand -- he was walking with a friend: young and ebullient on the asphalt  –  no: that was years ago: many years...

He walked with a friend --  experienced on the evident asphalt --  and concluded:  all men are common who have not found their voice. 

He has not found his voice in the wake of this riotous din.  He keeps to himself: as far as possible from the hoi-polloi and their gadgets: gizmos: baubles. 

A thinking man seeks peace.

But does it matter after the after (there’s always an “after:” when no one recalls the doings of his forebears) and after that: the final after -- when we’re sucked into blackness-blankness where actions are not marked nor deeds recorded?

Does it matter after curves in space: the next bird: if he was a master of dialog and faith: a poet who dug deep: slept fitfully and eventually?  

Or is it enough that he was no longer ebullient: no longer young?



Dark Above Her

Twenty years ago the beach.  Sun rise.   Coppertone.  Valium.  Before the photograph you couldn’t recognize the slip of years.  Records: archives.  Moments snatched like butterflies: pinned to the board.  

Watch us watch ourselves grow old: starched white sheets and all.

Without logic or intensity: we sought mountain stature: draped ourselves as if the world could end this way: in the boudoir: where dogs barked fantasies and women wept for virgin days of Summer: water-melon: songs around campfires (real or imagined): marshmallows burnt to ash but soft inside: white: sticky.

After the party: cocktails. Pure in the beginning: we spit on their ashes: escaped to yet another --

“This is the guest-room.”

Anticipate agony.  We know no other way.  Generic Memory of no particulars.  No individuals or details.  Just what The Race knows and remembers. 

Every moment’s stealth-creep.  When the floor drops.  Beneath us we see red.

Eventually we all know peace.  Or at the very least ignorance of or indifference to unrest.  And all the years passed through the fiery moment of a dream. 


She reached the very end: intensity of faith: absence of fear: and other freedoms surface when there’s absolutely, positively no place left to go.

Saturday, August 27, 2016

Ten Poems By Welsh Poet Paul Tristram


Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet.

Your Honour

“In this case, I must insist
That the defendant, your Honour,
Is subjected to a life sentence
Of Manic Depressive Disorder!”


Sadistic Introspection

…only perpetuates itself,
deeper and darker, inwards
with each un-fresh stab at it.
Dragging you further,
slowly but surely,
away from the light
of common sense and reason.
Binding ambitions,
blinding you to goals
and chaining you
to helpless melancholy.
Too much self-examination
is brooding
and brooding
does no good at all.
It merely halts you
living in the now.
It is a negative, completely.
whilst to fix things
you need a positive.
You are using up all of your
precious time and resources
digging in the wrong place, mate?



He’s Done With The Naysayers And Doubters

He has everything that he needs
in his little makeshift boat,
aptly called ‘The Adventurer’.
There’ll be sharks up ahead, of course
but he’s learnt some nifty manoeuvring skills
in his previous incarnations.
A wetted middle-finger for the breeze,
an optimistic telescope
and a full tank of hope
should see him ‘round those jagged rocks
with their gossiping Sirens of nonsense.
‘There’s calm, blue sailing waters out there,
I just know’ are the words whittled
into the bargepole which he uses constantly
to no longer touch those Bastards with.
So with a packed lunch
of sardines, ham and determination
*(Because everyone knows that the best thing
about being a Pirate is ‘Ham Night’)*
He’s off into the distant horizon
to find ‘Elsewhere’
because he’s heard a rumour
that it’s the best place to try your luck at.

*from the movie ‘The Pirates! An Adventure With Scientists’*



Look Beyond The Surface…They Don’t Want Forgiveness
Just A Way Back In To Finish Off The Job Properly

You have a temper and moods just like everyone
but your heart and soul are golden and true
and that’s what they hate about you.
Your fire and magic are real,
it exposes their fakeness,
making their whole charade ridiculous.
That’s why they keep shark circling
and wolf knocking upon your attention’s door.
To murder the light, snuff out the bright brilliance
and squeeze every last drop of
‘the thing which naturally escapes them’ from sight.
Your downfall, unfortunately, is the only sure way
of them ever being released from Envies living hell.



I Only Invited You Around So I Could Refuse You Entry

To say ‘No’ to you is almost perfect!
To turn you away and close the door
(Both physically and metaphorically)
gives me goose bumps and head rushes.
It’s scarily sexual and the only thing
that quiets (For a spell) the jagged,
sickly waves and storms of jealous
hatred which rage through my fractured core
like a forest fire within a box of Swan Vesta.
The thought of you disappointed
is a balm of the sweetest kind.
An accident, violence or other such trouble?
and I have to take to my bed hysterically
in squirming fits of throbbing ecstasies.
Every breath you take is a Treason,
each swaggering step a new Blasphemy.
That cute smile and those twinkling eyes
aaaarrgghh…I’ve bitten too hard again.
I am nearing the end of my tether,
surely God will see reason and understand.
(End question mark, removed by Author)




…And Down They Fall

It’s so nice when Karma’s got your back
and they start tripping over, one and all.
Some harder than others
because some people
seem to want to outdo themselves
on the nasty front these days.
If you’ve got the Strength to step sideways
out of Learnt, Predictable Behaviour.
Put a stranglehold upon your Temper
rather than around a filthy, lying throat.
You will be rewarded for not opening
the doorway onto that darker, Soul path.
You reap what you sow…
you cannot hide from the Eternal Watchers.
Hearts of Black receive Black,
Minds of Treachery attract such Treachery
and then there’s also the V.A.T. and Taxes.
Be careful with your Anger
and also with your Generosity
for both can be chess pieced against you.
And though the way through Life be Crooked
sometimes…You really don’t have to be Also.



Wicked Scars

I dot the I’s, cross the T’s
and underline
every experience with a razor.
My thighs are like maps
of my emotional soul.
I Groove release & comfort,
the sting warms up
the inner cold.
And there is nothing
quite so beautiful
on a January morning
than being wheeled away
from the other girls
in the dormitory.
Over to the medical unit
to be stitched up carefully
by Nurse Karen.
Young, pretty, smelling sweetly
of rose blossoms & ‘no issues’
Actually calling me
by my Christian name
and smiling like summertime
all over my wretched,
self-butchered, artistic frame.



Underestimate Me, Go On… Walk Right Into My Trap

I am only quiet because I am watching,
you slide cocky
around comfortable circles.
There’s a carelessness
to predictable patterns.
Cutting with the grain
will be delightfully easy.
A tumble-down’s a-coming,
Puppet Master’s unaware
of what’s going on behind his back.
There’s a guillotine,
at the starting gate,
primed and vibrating
to the strains of ‘I Told You So’s’.
No one gave you enough rope,
you wove it all by yourself.
Publically and with an ignorant smirk
upon your ‘Small Picture’ boat race.




Figure Out Your Trigger

Your as deep as the ocean, aren’t you?
I prefer shallow people really,
you know exactly where you are with them.
They have nothing to hide behind
except sandcastle lies and idiot grins.
Oh well, it just means I’ll have to work harder.
I can see it instantly in your clever eyes
that you don’t accept my insincere,
smiling, fawning friendship…
shame, it’s the best trick in my bag.
Well, that and my Boasting Ridiculousness
but you turned your head away at that.
I need inside of your machinery,
to poke and prod at what makes you tick.
There are weak spots and vulnerabilities
(Ooh, I do believe I’m starting to drip!)
hidden away under that confident armour.
I’m on a mission to Uriah Heep
the many connecting threads of your brilliance
and Guy Fawkes them publically to the ground.



Drinking Next Door In The Loser’s Arms

Some are regular fixtures
been patronizing the bar for decades.
Dusty as old attic pipework,
happy to never venture
out into the sunshine again.
Others stop by on occasion,
every few years or so.
Taking a rest, almost,
in between chapters.
Emotionally re-charging
and shuffling heartache away.
The Fleeter’s and the Rager’s,
not quite so deep, are the loudest.
But without them there would be
no electricity in the place.
The view from the Tavern’s windows
are as bleak as you need them to be.
There is no ‘Warm Welcome’
but you have been saved a place
that’s always waiting
just one argument or small disaster away.