Sunday, 30 January 2011

Jesse S. Mitchell

Sheridan Road

I stand almost upright
And nearly lost
Halfway a prisoner
Roughly between Emerson and Sheridan Road
Frozen in the explosion,
The sound drops out,
Things fly around my eyes
I stand in the middle of the passing-out-calm,
The quiet echoing melting-down-tunnel vision
I stand still and Looking up,
Naked souled and with a reckless restless spirit
And not yet blind…blind…blind.
I stand right here, silent and never moving
I will stand right here between Earth and Heaven
Between hearth and battlefield
Bloody bloody hero but well fed.
I will stand here, grass growing around my feet
And moon light pooled around my head
A halo, a burn…
I will stay right here
Let the Zunis keep their war gods
Let Aztecs keep their water gods
Let the Christians keep their words of peace
I will stand here
Nude souled
Right here between Heaven and Earth
Never moving.
I will begin to breathe
Breathe it all in as
It collides behind me
As it blows to dust in star powered explosions
I will begin to breathe standing here
As it, all turns to air.
Never moving.

Monday, 24 January 2011

Ande Enochsson


you say you forgot
the low chroma
same hues between houses
inside awareness
constant low value
sandwiched between
various levels of fullness

it's phosphorescence karma
they will chew you according to
richness but
not the ripened concord grapes
there must be a limit

regret for disappointed male
this season made no breasts
elation is the bomb
under the Pashto's

laughter is an older man's privilege
not because he's better in any way but
because he got lucky.

Gordon Mason


A frenetic firebird
fills the skies,
with a philharmonia
of Stravinsky strings

as we plunge from
Meall an Lochain
into a footbath
of fermented froth:

a veiled vacuum: a fungus
of microscopic crystals
that festoon Aberfeldy.
Flickers of streetlights,

stooped and scrunched
lonely figures,
unaware of the light
and life above,

creep past as we form
a crawl, a worm of drivers
in this ephemeron
clinging to the ice cold Tay.

Tuesday, 18 January 2011

Akeith Walters

Stopping at the Beach

A tug
at the lure
of floating in the splash
and black sparkle of the city
after dusk,

fishing for moments
around the slow ebb of traffic,

catches a Volvo parked
salt-streaked on sand.

Two pale feet,
sock-soft from an air conditioned summer,
perch beside the open door

while waves break in lazy stretches
across the brown bay and gutted channel.

Canned root beer warms in melted ice
and gulls,
fed scraps from a tuna sandwich at sunset,
still screech in hovering circles,

the skies ruby black above them,
their beady eyes a reflection of red

as the car pulls away

leaving large seaside mosquitoes
to crash the party,

ending the sandy feast.

Monday, 17 January 2011

Joe Massingham


Terns climb and wheel incessantly
mewing a lament for lost chicks,
painting patterns on the cliff face
that artistic periwinkles
can study from their seashore studios
and copy in the sculptured shelters
in which they enclose themselves.
Each night the wind wields
nature’s scouring pad
and scrubs the cliff face clean
so that in the morning the terns
must undertake their task again.