Synchronicity
Two caged parrots
mimicking
a false climax
ToneDeaf
In the fading light
the bare trees
whisper
your half thought-out
thoughts
The Last Visit
Growing child-like
& hungry
in her lonely
reindeer eyes
Inflation
Warblers living
on dollar store
crumbs
The Noisy Nude
Painted in gouache
& several variations
of pink
the nude in the picture
giggles
as the art critics
walk by.
Kyle Hemmings has work published in Otoliths, Pure Slush. Potato Soup Journal,and elsewhere He loves 50s sci-fi films and 60s garage bands.
I AM
My Attention
Unconditionally
& just Rest a bit.
As I AM is Attracting
As LOVE draws near.
ENERGY is
FORCE times
DISTANCE,
perhaps as
time draws
nearer this thought
unconditionally.
I AM
Here
Calls Looking at
The Expectations
of LOVE
& just Blessed a bit.
by John Edward Culp
Scripted Sunday Morning
October 30, 2022
Note: In 1840, Sir Thomas Browne’s skull was removed from the St. Peter Mancroft Church in Norwich when his coffin was “accidentally” disturbed by workmen. The skull wasn’t returned to lie with the rest of Browne’s earthly remains until 1922. In addition to writing “Religio Medici,” “Urne-Buriall,” and “Pseudodoxia Epidemica,” the 17th century physician and essayist is credited with coining dozens of words including medical, hallucination, electricity, exhaustion and coma.)
From the Misadventures of Sir Thomas Browne’s Skull
#1: Medical
after testing magnetic fluid with apples
tongue tied with a string
& knock
ing on the farmhouse
floorboards
in Hydesville, NY
the Fox sisters gnaw’d
the skull
of Thomas Browne
from seed husks of sunflower & Caledonian pine
communing a shadow image
assembled like the worldly goods
of a Dutch still life
14.7 cm wide
right socket cribra orbitalia,
spermaceti wedged like a fennel bulb in the left
& drip
ping with the endless mutations
of Nature.
#2: Hallucination
her eyes mention sunsets, briefly
but then she nods twice at the overcooked agave
cankering my broad lace collar & breeches
“hole in your lip,” she says & I
glance in the bar mirror at my skull
a festoon of beads & sequins, almonds
painted leaves & roses wreathed around 22 bones
that come together like a puzzle, a calavera
that upon closer inspection is missing a name
it could be me
or just another departed
soul.
#3: Electricity
I sd to the son
of the candle & soap maker
“a tenuous emanation
or continued effluvium
retracteth fire from the clouds”
whereupon the early capitalist
stood in a field
with a large handkerchief
waiting for Zeus
to jump from / the sky.
#4: Exhaustion
After
a 48 year
country ramble
I’m sitting at the Horn of Plenty
in Whitechapel
& I says, Jack
the body is open
to contemplation.
#5: Coma
doorknobs & doorjambs w/ hasps & hinges /
yellow bananas launched on blue boats / telephone game /
the benefit of planting trees in latticelike formation / snowflakes
slide softly soon / where is the square /
doors and jabs w/ hooks & hikes /
blueberries craunched on blue coats / broken telephone /
dead kingfishers do not make good weathervanes / Edinburgh /
the skin of a snake bred out of the spinal marrow of man /
After The Storm
Candle light
Dark sky
Silhouettes of trees
Line the view outside
Booming thunder
Flashing light
Replaced by the sound
Of crickets in the night
Dull fire shines bright
A blanket of wet
Coats the surrounding land
It’s calm now
violence in the air
cast your eyes
off into the
ocean
you can smell
destruction and
violence in the
air
there is no force
on earth quite
like mother
nature
no matter
whatever any
blowhard in
power tends
to believe
----------------------------------------------------
a lesson
i was
told to
think of
prayer
as talking
directly
to god
so
i guess
waiting
for those
prayers
to be
answered
is a lesson
in being
fucking
ignored
----------------------------------------------------
an appropriate goodbye
i used to always fear
that i would die while
masturbating to the
home shopping
network
now i wish it
would happen as
i think it would
be an appropriate
goodbye to this
world
----------------------------------------------------
this beautiful cruel mistress
asking questions
before it's too late
a hole in your new
pair of pantyhose
sliding into whatever
the fuck dm's are
anymore
you're not interested
in swiping
and aren't exactly sure
if this is something
you're interested in
participating in life
this beautiful cruel
mistress
a flip of the coin
hitting the jack
on the river
luck is only for
those willing
to lose
------------------------------------------------------
with their concern in mind
whispers in the neon
the prettiest girl in
the room is chatting
you up and everyone
is looking on with
disgust
the joy of not living
with their concern
in mind
it is a hard lesson
to learn
but once you do
it makes life so
much easier
to live
with no handcuffs
holding you back
---------------------------------------------------------
J.J. Campbell
51 Urban Ln.
Brookville, OH 45309-9277
jcampb4593@aol.com
https://evildelights.blogspot.com
https://goodreads.com/jjthepoet
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, wondering where all the lonely housewives went. He’s been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently at Horror Sleaze Trash, The Beatnik Cowboy, Jellyfish Whispers, The Rye Whiskey Review and Dumpster Fire Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
Sleep
riotous fortitude the feet at his command
forcing into rectitude colours flood night time
semblances those flattered tears encapsulating
weary figures of disgrace the flitting fortunes dipped
in honeycombs of perfection’s strangled hand the
beauty fades into day’s long calling subtlety
wrenched & wrecked from epiphany wild dreams
engulfed in sudden falling shards
distilling your virtues controlled antipathy
golden memories recycled & harmony reboiled
in among the snakes of wrath their
seething nightmares claiming in sleep.
Vowels
damn bursts into shards unruly laughter
the destitute rehearse comeuppance for
the gentry whose falling failing capital
lays siege to wailing wallflowers and embrocation
a dalliance with creatures from darkened pools
emitting blood lusts of linguistic deadpan images
throttling gestures rekindling tears of russian literature
& innocence devolving once again the inhumanity
of man his drenched thru bones declared
whittled down in passages a trespass on this
night-time curfew its razor blades screeched against
the vowels laid before his lolling tongue.
These two poems are from Clive Gresswell’s new and as yet unpublished collection SPACES. Clive, 64, suffers from bi-polar but still worked for 30-plus years as a journalist. Eventually though ill-health caught up with him. He is now a well published innovative writer and poet the author of five books of poetry and published in many magazines from BlazeVOX to Tears in the Fence. He has an MA and a BA (First Class) in Creative Writing obtained as a mature student.clivegresswell@gmail.com
