Only My Love Is True
Everything is true in the sun
Only my love is false in your world
Everything is alive like fountain
Only my soul is dead as stone.
Time kills the sound of kisses
And vanishes where love was born
The Sahara counts the desires of the stars
The wild night writes love letter
I hide in the kiss of celestial time
Memories speak in your footprint
I make the way you walk with love
Searching your fragrance in every flower
Hearing the appearing sound in rain drop
I see dead love in few stones
As you have not touched them
The crowd becomes desert
If you are silent
The land of joy turns into fire
If you are not there
Everything is dead
Only I am alive
Everything is false
Only my love is true.
oxygen deprived
Polka dots & mung beans, &
millions of dead fish floating
& coating kilometers of river.
Essentially they're all ingre-
dients, the type of thing you
keep in your kitchen cupboards
along with other ingredients.
Ready to be thrown into a
mixing bowl & turned quickly
into a topical &/or nostalgic
treat should your relatives
unexpectedly come around.
Gourmand eyes
Wearing a
seasonally
significant
hachimachi
headband
the kami-
kaze poet
prepares to
eat himself
to death.
He fails. &
the wind
is not
divine.
He spent the morning
deciding what color Model T to ask for. Assembly lines were de facto machines of war—the Arsenal of Venice, Springfield Rifle. He wanted to disrupt the process.
The $1 million white picket fence
Subtlety or stupidity? I'm never
sure which when it comes to the
Defense Force. So I debate myself
about what the Army's up to in
raising a gigantic sign which reads:
A STRONG FENCE CAN MATE
MULTIPLE TIMES IN A SINGLE
SEASON & STILL SERVE AS
GRACELAND'S GUEST BOOK.
Le Civilisateur
(after the paintings by Magritte)
Three paintings of a dog, all
different dogs but the same
one painted. All different names
but painted under the same
name. Somewhere I read that
this Loulou was black, but painted
white for the occasion. Narrow
nostrils, but supposedly had a
big heart. So loved by its child-
less owners that it traveled with
them everywhere, even to the
States, its right of passage paid
for by a promise to allow the fuse-
lage of one of the airline’s planes
to later carry a Magritte motif.
All things pass, including the in-
fluence of a civilizer. The livery
of the plane redone to reflect new
alliances. & of the other themed air-
craft, Tintin will be the next to go.
Spring Sprawls Across the Fence of the Reality
The river and the wind bring Spring in your house;
the leaves and the gravel announce a stranger;
your curtains rise and fall; one cuckoo blurs
the boundary of singularity; you turn in your bed;
on your South side lies your lover whom you have gybed
towards sleep; all of his flesh and his mind
at its puerility's height hold the railing of a ship leaving
the port of reality. Those leaves talk with the stranger.
So much exist outside one's perception,
love outside your windows,
patience across the fence of waiting.
You stream on the bed, reflections of the stars on your chest.
You breathe, and it rains in the city.
Have You Seen That Patch of Green
The wind within
bleeds on the blades of my dreams.
This is the patch of the wild blooms
I carry, held between
the house I desire
and the one I own.
Today summer liquifies
the red. The prayers sway.
An arrow of the birds free
in the cage of my mind's geosphere flies.
Waiting
The clock unwinds silence;
in the embrace of our pillows
we sleep off twelve gongs;
snow swirls to settle on
our tropical forty degree Celsius land;
a singular apparition
holds its crow mien and fettle.
The mango tree writhes underneath
its unaccustomed white sheath.
Patience waits outside, leaves
its footprints on the snow
although in the morning we see nothing
except some wet roads, cars,
greenery and feathers, nothing that
can make us believe in the myths.
The String
Why the road and the pavements look wet?
Rain remains absent in this plain for awhile.
Do we sweat this much? Oh so wet!
The kite whisperer friend lets it be
a white stingray in the almost-white blue.
"Report back; bring back the messages of the clouds."
The news from the sky sounds fake; we misread it.
"If you misinterpret something fake," hope says,
"what you perceive might be true."
The boys reels and pulls the string.
Sometimes the thin line cuts the skin.
The asphalt glistens. Do we bleed that much?
Kushal Poddar, the author of ‘Postmarked Quarantine’ has eight books to his credit. He is a journalist, father, and the editor of ‘Words Surfacing’. His works have been translated into twelve languages.
bomb threat
bomb threat in the
next town over at
a parts factory
they normally
happen at a high
school
someone wants to
get out of a quiz
but at a factory
the only thing
i can think of
is today must
have been
drug test day
opioids are still
mighty popular
out here in the
sticks
-------------------------------------------------------
been tricked so many times before
some angel will surely
want to love me one
of these days
i just hope i am still
breathing when that
moment arrives
been tricked so many
times before all the
options on the dark
side of life have
become ever more
appealing
my patience is wearing
thin these days
i wouldn't say i have
lost hope, just that it
does an incredible
job playing hide
and seek
------------------------------------------------------------
before desperation becomes...
pretty quiet outside
aside from the cars
and occasional trucks
driving by
this is the eerie quiet
before the shit hits
the fan
before arguments are
ended in gunfire
before desperation
becomes the saddest
note
written in blood
found on the floor
among dirty underwear
and a nearly empty
bottle of jack
------------------------------------------------------
a morphine drip
you always wanted
a morphine drip for
christmas
thought that would
be the perfect gift
that kept on giving
the times have changed
drug dealers seem
to not mind killing
off their own customers
chasing that elusive
high, you should be
willing to die for it
every junkie has told
me that
i'm not chasing that
high
not even chasing
perfection
simply a stubborn
prick that wants to
die on his own terms
bruises fresh on the
arms and legs
----------------------------------------------
burden
the spanish princess
believes she is too
much of a burden
for me
and no matter how
much i argue that
this is not the case
she won't change
her mind
i shouldn't feel like
i lost something that
i never had, but i do
but heartache at this
point of my life doesn't
sting as much as when
i was younger
i'm guessing because
the finish line is in view
and i know i won't have
to deal with any of this
much longer
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, slowly losing hope. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at just good poems, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash, The Black Shamrock and The Rye Whiskey Review. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
God's Confession
I was sitting alone
In a god-forsaken bar
the Cosmos Bar in Soi Cowboy
Bangkok, Thailand
On the lunatic fringes of society
Twenty drinks too sober
In the ass end
of a Friday night booze binge
On the bad part of town
Over by railroad tracks
Heading to hell
As fast as I could drank it down
Enjoying my lonely drink
Drinking by my lonesome self
With my partners
Jimmy Bean, Jack Daniels,
The Walker brother
Evan Williams And his old Granddad
Just drinking one bourbon,
one scotch, and one beer
and hanging
with Jack Daniel's
gentlemen’s club
A crazed bum
With a thousand-year stare
Walks up to me
He begins
Muttering to himself
Nutty nonsense
Crazy words
In a lunatic's voice
He had the look
Of one possessed
By his demons
Only he can see
Or hear
Possessed
by a secret knowledge
Only he knew
Despite myself
I was fascinated
By this lunatic's tale
So I stopped him
And said
“Say, crazy little Dude!
So what's your game, Anyway?”
The short little dude
Stopped his insane prattle
Starting at me
With that
thousand-year-old stare
Just another
washed-up lunatic
Too many drugs
His mind blown away
Down too many rabbit holes
Too many bad nights
On the wrong side of life
An ACID causality
From the 60s
Been down so long
It looks like
up to him
He looked at me
And proclaimed his story
He reared up
And filled up the room
And lifted the bar
On his finger
And stared down at me
From the sky
And said
“Since you asked
I am Allah
The Alpha and Omega
Ganesh
Kali
Jupiter
Jehovah
Shiva
Zeus
And a billion other names
The real deal
The original dude of dudes
The Sultan of Swing
God of hosts
And the father of that Jesus dude
But no one knows me
Any more
No one cares
They think I am irrelevant
They think I am dead
They think I am a fairy tale
From some olden, ancient time
That my work is done
I looked at him
Carefully now
And what did I see
An old man
With that lunatic look
But there was something else
He was crazy
Sure. Yeah
Out there
Bat sh… looney tunes
But perhaps
he was the real deal
I mean why not
In this materialistic age
Why would God not be
a wandering lunatic
wandering around loose
Talking to low lives like me
In a bar
On the highway to hell
So I looked at him
And invited him to share
His tale of cosmic woe
God tells me
“Well, it's like this
Many a year ago
People believed in me
But one day
They quit believing in me
they moved on
And they went on without me
As they left me
My powers got weaker and weaker
And so eventually I became
What you see today
A broken-down drunk
Hanging out
Looking for a handout
Looking for some company
Or at least a free dinner”
And he laughed
and laughed
And I looked at him
And saw
the beginnings of the end
And the ends
of the beginnings
I saw a million planets
Flash by
Trillions of people
Thinking all at once
Thoughts filled my head
Lights flashed
And I knew
He was telling the truth
But it did not matter
In this day and age
Of materialism
God has no role
God is truly dead
And so I bought him a drink
And walked out of the bar
still twenty drinks too sober
Profoundly saddened
From what I had seen
God was dead
And we had all conspired
To kill him
Long live God
Anyone Hungry?
Mom pushes herself away from the table with a loud
squeak from the chair legs. My body
slumps, full from a satisfying meal. I don’t feel like speaking
tonight. My mind is already clouded, but I listen to mom, always loud and dramatic.
Dad’s breathy laugh drifts through the kitchen as my sister finishes her story, and the hum of the heater turns to warm us all.
“Dessert?”, Mom offers, walking back with her homemade
peanut butter pie. I can hear Dad smile without looking at his face. Peanut butter pie is his favorite. My mother sits in front of me, closer to the heater, a woman who is always cold no matter the season.
She makes a comment about my sister. The word “selfish”
slices the air, a knife sharper than what she used to cut
our roast beef. Tension rises with the heat in the kitchen.
Their voices clash against the ceiling.
Dad, complacent to conflict, puts his hands up in a T as if he is a referee.
“Time-out, time-out”, he says.
I stare at the bottom of the heater.
No one hears him. My sister's voice
starts to shake.
Focus
on the hum of the heater.
Focus
on the floor.
Sparks sneak out the edge of
the black box. My heart quickens
its beating. No one notices
a thing, but I see a spark
touch the wood floor, see it grow
into a flame,
stretch its vengeful
fingers towards
my mom's chair.
She screams.
I don’t think.
The cord is right
next to me,
so I reach.
The hum of the heater
stops its singing,
and I am left to stare at the black hole
tattooed on our kitchen floor.
Step’d to the wall’s that’s nott’d there take the pledge up-touch; lean in; and—oh—it is not there right on fast through fall down into ? so fast there’s no time to live through it at all let alone “talk about it” and—fall.
Fall done en’ tumblin’ not—as there nothing to strike of the consistency of air or rock or anyplace in between to cause the fall t’ be a tumbling fall and so the landing well, it is really hard to predict if the fall gets survived. You know you see? Do you know? Do you see why don’t you know you were shown earlier and you do not know for one simple reason = you did not apply yourself fully = it is not for our kind to apply ourselves fully = oh yes and why not = because the things in life obtained by applying oneself fully are not for such as us = oh no = oh yes = the things in life obtained by applying oneself are not for us they’re for other people what = why you want to waste those damned ten years of life striving out so far that way that you end up going so far out that way you won’t find an arm attached to yourself long enough to reach back and grab yourself and pull yourself back there up to yourself out there and fuse the two which is what makes for a successful = thought still quite hard = oh yes you will you will feel the fall in any case no pain no gain barf bar/ ba’ b’ = wow they’re to feel that in the morning wish I hadn’t seen that oh well what’s done is done, in any case = may be said after the completion of a successfully survived fall that is your two = one now not only did your arm turn out to be just barely good enough and the two halves of yourself = perfectly aligned at the moment of fusion = you stop and you see that if planet Earth does experience {metaphorically of course as = [ with an entire planetary bag o’ living creatures ] = the explanation that’s just been handed out to you = hilariously bad laughably overly-simplified most stuntedly underdeveloped so let’s not go there = I am parched, where’s my am parched water parched, where’s my where’s my am parched, my top-filled am parched, water; my water’ water my God man; you don’t even know what a water looks like, spit-tooten’, spit-tooten = here is what a water looks like
God damn you ah ah ‘illina ‘illina stil’ down t’ road hipsla-tango = you can tell by my faces I am not fooling around you can tell but in any stroke there they were successfully landed bright-bruised, but happy. In contrast to = drink drink drink drink drink = the other way of falling which = drink drink drink drink drink = is just nearly as best but best’s not enough when in this one = drink drink drink drink drink = the faller’s arm-reachback’s not quite so adequate = drink drink drink drink drink = and thus the falling’s not needed since being parted out into two separate ways is inherently fatal in and of itself = drink drink drink drink drink = so we needn’t to go there not to go there we needn’t = to go spit clash glub bub = drink drink drink drink drink = so then squire-lastly there’s this tickle of a final way out of all possible finals ways to = remember the best way to break a fall is to never have fallen at all [yes sir that’s right] know that wisdom now = drink drink drink drink drink = and know it immediately, private, or you will face the living hell of being put in charge of all the vessels do you know what that means sweetheart fear it fear it do you feel the fear of possibly being put in charge of all the vessels or worse yes than this
= drink drink drink drink drink = sir! And worse yes than that = drink drink drink drink drink = sir! but all’s become so tiny sir how can we do it now it’s gone down so tiny? would be actually being put in charge of all the vessels (oh yah oh yah reality does have a way of stepping out of the theoretically real into the really real area of its-self within which lies all pain suffering malicious cruelty and even some petty thieveries of two or three but what’s a (?? tipt’d-tongue tip’d-tongue) “ “ this blank may be filled with any word desired dab-smack’d so whish would you choose Top-mayor, I mean what’s right what’s wrong BOO just never ever ever blacken the family name
BOO for if the family name gets blackened not only will it set all the neighbors a-buzzing [and thus to shut up all smiley when thou doth enter their earshot] so now my nose’s blown and my inner noisefest’s gone a-quiet {nearly}, here’s what happens = the back-half’s been grabbed ‘nd pulled up’s been = not really aligned perfectly = the two halve will mate jaggedly off center = leap back the observers & if any & out of shrapnel’s range = and the two will clash off-center = being mmmmediately kill-xisted into balls of flames slurries of green red and when present at all, most likely laced with streaky-splatter’d gold {but yes oh yes of gold nonetheless so of probable high-value = let’s take ‘em out Sarge! = the minutes all ‘round here b’ ticking yas yas, they be ticking = and it does all seem to not be there anymore just like YOU if you dare fall that way, Toppie, just like YOU and like YOU old-man Toppie, but here we are no wait the doors need to slip open—there.
What?
Regardless of number of hot teas too-accurately drunk, we be.
There. Look!
Jan and Jon turned out from their looking.
Where the hell are we?
In the aftermath of a successfully perfectly harmless fall.
