we marble lunatics love poets



we

are organized dust     ego constructed from cosmic mix     massproduced but with divergent faces     our destinies the crossings of expectation habit constitution accident habit    sculptors and poets waste their available dictionaries, unless resupplied by quarrymen and etymologists their arts would die on touch and tongue

marble

no bowel no brain no brawn no breath     condemned to be free, slave stone accomplice of master sculptor     mutated by love by language by law by belief its appearance mirrors its butcher’s thought     but it holds its is its was its will be     the sculpture never forgives the chisel

lunatics

wanting the strength and beauty of youth we moon the sun     our fears defend the fortress while our foes search for our sally port     in dream we become vicious trees and randomic machines and thus think we are free from matter’s fetters     the earth is my floorboard the sun my incandescent bulb     rains and rains (repetitions of repetitions) massage a hollow in the rock

love

an infinite latitude looking for a latitude to fix its place     each lover an assemblage of unlike entities, each an infinite diversity     an eventual child of memory doing that old mortar-and-pestle     our tears were blushes once     the wool outvalues the sheep, the horn its rhino

poets

try to keep secret the genius of their creation by gloving fingers and genitals but hints always reveal their command     juggling invisible maracas in nets of intimate timpani      imagination corrals disorder     complexity camouflages simplicity



THIS IS HOW . IT ALL BEGINS



Mother Sky Aphrodite

slides into her nightie

(Silk. Black. Strobe-filled sequins.)

and glides like Ponds into bed.



Papa Earth rolls over once,

hugs her, humps her, then grunts,

groans, snores: sprawls like lead.



From their bedclothes crawls a Moon-faced

offspring, squalling till the dawn,



when a newer, brighter son

spits up in his spoon.



A POEM WITH A TITLENEAR THE MIDDLE



felt hammer



         a stammer

/a sermon



honey in an

             iron jar



  a temple/

a jungle



(:Marriage is:)



philosophy

            and football



KAMASUTRA

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways….

--Elizabeth Barrett Browning



11. You are the axe in the well. It shines then rusts.

15. Because there is a clearing in the woods. Winter sun is iced beer. The short noon lengthens its shadow.

17. By rotating ringmaster, acrobat, lion tamer, and clown. Entertaining the performers keeps the circus alive.

23. We are like a hinged door that swings wildly.

25. By being the wind coaxing the wallflower.

26. Because our tantric nirvanic altar sacrifices the doves and the lambs, the flour and the wine.

28. By eating as much trout as we can while avoiding the hooks.

34. You are like the hand of the tongue, signing in diverse dialects. No tongueless poet can tell the honey from the vinegar.

39. Because, first, each of us must talk to the other’s eye and make our halos sparkle. The organ must fit the occupation.

42. Because pleasure’s foundation must hold the skyscraper’s weight.

46. Because every successful love merchant barters ego for empathy: To exalt the narcissist, the narcissist must appease the other narcissist.

48. Like the crack that makes the kaleidoscope.

50. Because solids grow hollow, and tall beauties shrink to a willow branch but swell again when roots are watered. Fingers harvest the garden’s onions, the parsley patch.

53. By being an interpreter of hints into commands. Genitals never blush, never lie.

55. Just as the nomad, mapping the way from one Alone to another, discovers new silk roads.

57. By having a limb that blooms and buds and sometimes becomes a club.

59. You are the careful steward, partitioning the jewels, the perfume, the spice, and the lace from the placenta and the excrement.

61. By allowing the passion to run free while confining the caution.

63. Because desire is the part of us that touches the parts of others.

66. Through the realization that we fell in love with the other’s image of our possibilities. So, be your Mahdi! Establish an infinity in every instant.

69. Like our instruments, we are all we have for reaching out.

72. Through incessant practice. Even the bunglers of love can learn to be jugglers.

75. Because sex completes a bachelor’s halfness. Sex is the prophet of progeny.

77. Your Monaco arms seek to engage my vast Russia passions.

80. Through awareness of eternity’s sting. Stars swarm around the hive of our moon but remain balanced: We can release ourselves from our body of death in the knowledge that we carry our own prisons and paroles with us.

82. By not becoming so old as to expect passion or so young as to seek respect.

97. I love thee upon greeting.

98. And at leaving.



PILGRIM



At Lourdes you chose to laugh

at my perfect body.

You mocked me on my knees,

scoffed my alabaster,

scorned my lisp and my limp,

called my cactus lily.

Demanded that I show

sure proof of my disease.

How could you not have seen

the cancers on my skin?

The flags of leprosy?

WATER

So this is what 
we need to survive.
I’d have said blood,
the red stuff that gushes out
whenever I cut myself.

But, if water it’s to be,
then at least I can turn on
a tap anywhere in the house
and it does flow.
It even flushes.
And it spins like crazy
in the washing machine.

I do drink the stuff 
from time to time.
Like a penance.
For the stuff is the ultimate
in tasteless.

But the flowers seem
to like it.
As do the birds.
And it keeps me clean.
So it’s definitely 
a player in my love life.

And I must confess
that I have this
romantic attachment to rain.
Inside is never cozier
than when it’s pouring 
on the outside.

My lover and I 
sit by the window,
watch it bucket down. 
We sip our wine
in full view of the weather.
A great Chablis gives water 
something to aspire to. 



CURFEW NIGHT				

Real Gothic night.	
Cops are circling like vampires.
Kids are in their virgin clothes,
t-shirts, jeans, grins on faces,
dirt under nails.
Transylvania Main Street.
Ignore the Hardware store,
the McDonalds, the movie house
showing adult romance.
Be afraid. Tremble.
Feel your clothes on your skin
and your skin on you.
You're on foot, in summer garb,
even though the knives of Autumn are out.
And the cops are Winter grim.
"Why aren't you at home?”
The river's gray and sour.
Lights betray the garbage of civilization.
A bar shakes like ice in a glass.
Here men gather for protection.
The grim adulteress approaches
each in turn like a song from the juke-box.
Cheap lyrics are Shakespeare to a drunk.
Cops don't bother them.
With the right uniform, the perfect fangs,
drunks could be cops themselves.
But the kids are without rooms,
without ceilings, alcohol, cheap talk
and last year's orgasms.
They're as vulnerable as burgomaster's daughters
in the twilight woods
crossing the shadow
of the crumbling castle on the hill.
They try for the rhythm of grownups
but end up darting here and there
like sting-less wasps.
Any lighter and the breeze has them.
Any smaller and they fall through
the sidewalk cracks.
Meanwhile, Dracula has had his donut.
Count Yorga has parked and dozed enough.


Time now to sate the hunger	
or push some weight around.
"Hey there. What are you up to!"
Kids stop in their tracks.
The cops’ “Go home”
is up-close and sharp.
Kids feel like 
they’ve just been bit.



JOSEPH

Joseph was as slow at realizing the truth
as he was getting up in the morning,
and, even when he did arise, 
his brain took its time registering 
the purpose of all that surrounded him
from the ceiling to the walls, 
to the floor, the stairs and the coffee pot.
And that’s why he didn’t realize, until midday, 
that his wife, Anita was not in the house.

And then, only at twilight, did Joseph
find the note she’d left on the sideboard.
He didn’t read it until it was time for bed,
when he was so drowsy, 
he had a hard time deciphering
the meaning of “I’ve left you.”
And her mention of another guy, Andrew,
who was twenty years younger,
had him shaking his head,
and saying, “I don’t know any Andrew.”
He fell asleep without even noticing 
there was nobody under the sheets with him.

Joseph dreamed that night of a tennis match
where his opponent was a much younger man
named Andrew with a strong serve and wicked backhand.
The only one in the stands was his wife.
Andrew totally destroyed Joseph in straight sets
and the victor flung his racket high in the air in celebration 
then ran off the court and into the arms of Anita.

When Joseph awoke next morning
and, after his mind and reality got in synch,
he looked in the mirror at a plumpish, 
long-faced, gray-haired reflection,
muttered to himself, “Joseph Andrew Sullivan, 
you’re sure not the man you used to be”.



IN TERMS OF AUDIENCE

Far out in the waves,
you screamed 
as an undercurrent 
took hold of your foot
and pulled you under.

Flapping arms 
and kicking feet
propelled your body
out of danger
and into calmer waters.

As you coasted on a wave
back to shore,
you began to imagine 
throngs of people
awaiting you there, 
welcoming you back to life.

But fat man on the beach
was all who noticed you,
and not while you were 
in danger,
only as you made your way
out of the waves,
and strode up the beach.

His belly was 
bright red and as round 
as a prize-winning melon.

You envisaged it
winning the blue ribbon
at a harvest festival.
You wanted to applaud
but you checked yourself.



JAKE AND THE CIGARETTE MACHINE

Jake needed a cigarette badly,
so he put his money 
in the nearest machine,
though it didn’t carry his brand.

But when he pushed the button,
nothing happened.
It took his cash all right
but no pack popped out below.

“Damn,” he cried out  
before waylaying some guy 
who worked at the place.
“I don’t got the key,”

the employee said.
“Write down your name and number 
and I’ll give it to Artie
when he comes by next Tuesday.”

Jake was in a rage, grabbed the guy 
by the collar, screamed, “I’m dying for
a fucking cigarette!”
“I’d give you one of mine,” said the other 

through his violently restrained
vocal chords. “But I don’t smoke.”
That’s when Jake clocked him
in the jaw, then grabbed the 

nearest thing to come to hand,
a fire extinguisher. flung it 
at the cigarette machine
with such force, the front 

caved in, cracked open, 
spilling cigarette boxes everywhere.
Jake breathed a sigh of relief.
Violence had been good to him,

calmed his nerves, satisfied cravings.
He left without taking
the freebies scattered across the floor.
He no longer needed a cigarette.


John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Lost Pilots. Latest books, ”Between Two Fires”, “Covert” and  “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in California Quarterly, Seventh Quarry, La Presa and Doubly Mad.

Goran Tomic is a Collisionist Autodidact Artist from Sydney, Australia who has exhibited his collages, video installations and performance art over the past 25 years. Raised on Rauschenberg and born posthumously he Flaneur’s the urban decay searching for his Wilderness robe.

light and bitter

sunday lunchtime 
with my father 
in the cemetery  
wind striking stone
beating conflict 
bearing down   
scratched on a head 
marking the days 
four poems prowl
as i fly into deeds 
that bought me up 
for change
to bring me into line
to put me in these lines  
the imagery awakes
and in this mist of time
this son of york
moves effortlessly 
‘mongst the pines 
a slicing of anxiety that lies 
most pale in the moonlight
witness the nervous prayer
vistas that were there for us 
a very useful sunset
once more cut adrift
lover-to-be – begin
sex and secularity
show boats in the drink 
adolescent agitprop revisited
a really low shuck scuttle
across the backs 
of daunting zebras 
leap or they’ll come for you 
get down on the blanket then
harsh noise too dark 
once i was a walking erection
entitlement personified 
lewd passions break neck 
runaway class 
runaway signs 
sonic experiments 
ranging from riffs
exclude ecstasy 
include instances 
you know 
she whispered
you do know
gentle then 
gentlemen
we are subjects 
of the author 
of his latest 
and the world won’t end
oh delighting one
after all you will 
after all you’ve seen
full-lotus on the mantelpiece
a technique to be admired 
move on to more familiar hypnosis 
twist yourself into a tree 
incendiary personal collections
consisting of salacious clips
behaviour can be useful 
a fortune on the pools 
north carolina is drowning
and she is a million years old
in his pocket lies your breathing 
modern psychology fries
wavemakers made off 
with my waking  
red brick telephone lines 
yes sir she does have two kidneys 
racists are usually thick
the meat grinder has read your note 
but you are not excused   
a hundred-thousand potbellies
can’t be wrong
and personal chemistry 
can only take you so far
this blend of surreal chicanery 
is remaining  
weaving opening pieces
and having to make do 
so cease your 
fashionable scuttling
i also find that 
quite contrived 
we held 
we necked
as first rains 
hit the carriage
we decoded the typology
and oh what fun we had
live streaming the event
simplify and exemplify  
or you will be disturbed 
try to exercise 
begin to form softness 
sink into self-defence 
only partly consume yourself  
more profit for the shucksters 
out ways means way out
sullen leaps from the parapet 
my stares have been changed  
and both are rather weary now
coffee brews with queer desires 
following which and taking it on 
take what you want and get it to shore 
farewell yearning cobra 
cats that ridge their backs 
time to find 
the dreamlike 
frame mind 
abiding buttered cool 
blue-tiled pools and pixled fools
furnish them with everything 
be unconscious mind i said 
call it out then mother-hen 


and this is what that feels like

it creeps into you backwards 
with its bug eyes on your feet 
on a tight leash 
fold and unfold 
as the woodland comes to life 
in surroundings 
i wave she waving 
must run 
rice cake wars 
once factories made sure 
still jolly reader 
really bad got bored 
rather than wait 
the creature stirred 
who would have thought 
of virgin lands 
with ringing crystals 
so debauched 
who then is watching 
this unprecedented growth 
through a soft lens 
reach for a cigarette 
vodka 
this world 
has become a dark world 
murdering catamites 
behind a white picket fence 
what is on offer 
we bring you plate 



ransom note 

thought circuits bathed in flaming gravy
simple weird moments in a deep bass slot
fine dimly wondered march acoustics
sirloin beef broils there bypassing breath
this infernal whooping through my mucus 
has transformed the cold machinery of war    
break out the psalms and trance-like simul-
ations before the god of winds caresses 
your last breath counting your sleeps in a 
sound-proofed chamber recycling waste 
for a jollier death my knees have turned 
against me and now they’re spreading so 
there’s little else left here for me to do oh 
damn your dreams fish don’t want air and 
many more besides a little bit of ghostly’s 
gone astray go check for mail and mow 
the lawn and throw your groceries in the 
bin this must we see it cannot be it flows 
through graduated forms a stasis tube 
containing light a play with something 
different new concerns providing stranger 
personal effects aesthetic coffins ripened 
love buds please dear uncle am i then the 
one am i a shade of energy pulsating in 
and out of love of time not out of hate of 
signs but talk of peace that mimics all 
the body’s core and fights what should 
have made a difference and yet 
appears in more and more degrading 
revelations force fed into my conscious 
mind it’s what is endlessly desired 
discover walks and roots in forestation 
that renew then take up huge amounts 
of time – the moments must so easily 
slip by be still and concentrate as best 
you can with myra hindley on your 
knee a flash of bottled radishes pressed 
uo against your spine that so inflames 
the rash that your humanity decries






irrational darkening dream status 

a sinistere mouths 
and my glass eye rolls 
left arm draped 
in a short space
stake gibbet and cross
and repent 
base pernicious 
and degrading
fire and sword 
from lip to ear
crystallised 
into a creed
prenatal memory 
cognition
black fire town 
once there was
a red hot poker
now there’s only
central heating
shadow travellers 
offend 
a sort of rising 
for a few 
like-minded friends 
and what is left 
is postmarked quarantine
daisy gristle welts
green gnomes here lie 
and their chunks 
anastasia was disposed of
lady chatterley's 
a broken tuba now
her topical mouth 
is a gift shop
but it’s closed
whose contraption 
am i strapped upon
the master-key 
is in their hands
and i believe 
they watch my dreams
through apertures extending into space

Eddie Heaton studied innovative and experimental poetry under the tutelage of post-modern poet and educator Keith Jebb, achieving a first-class honours degree. He also won the 2021 Carcanet Award for Creative Writing. His work has been extensively published in a number of prestigious literary journals.

A hazy familiar abstraction....
Like a decoupage painting
Designed as a distraction
Like watching you dreaming...
Mesmerized by a wistful whiff of 
Melancholy and underlying yearning
         for the joy of a blossoming aliveness.
You,       a relay of impressionist painter Claude Monet
All while in the  deep  end of steep sleep;
I was transfixed and     transported     in your succoring   still, 
Even if for a sparkly shine of a      firefly  
Nestled in the arms of the numbing night, 
Like the brevity of life itself...beautifully rendered
Even if only in your dream state;
Until daylight swallows the night
And dreams come AWAKE!

Jacques Fleury is a Boston Globe featured Haitian-American Poet, Educator, Author of four books and literary arts student at Harvard University online. His latest publication “You Are Enough: The Journey to Accepting Your Authentic Self”  & other titles are available at all Boston Public Libraries, the University of Massachusetts Healey Library, University of  Wyoming, Askews and Holts Library Services in the United Kingdom, The Harvard Book Store, The Grolier Poetry Bookshop, Amazon etc…He has been published in prestigious  publications such as Muddy River Poetry Review, the Cornell University Press anthology Class Lives: Stories from Our Economic Divide, Boston Area Small Press and Poetry Scene among others…Visit him here.

[tan-renga, untitled] deciduous conifers the secret not enjoying it

        seabreeze lifts 

        a mini skirt

Jerome Berglund& Christina chin [rengay]

Shane Coppage    & Jerome Berglund

    Light Mana
fooly electric shoals of koi live live neon

    winsome bird

    before the blur
virtual fall the numbers behind purple rain 

    faraday cage 

    color coding

    french ballets 
data castles arabesque in replica dreams

    singularity

    fake it  

    till you make it[split sequence]

Marjorie Pezzoli       & Jerome Berglund

        Throw Down 
Sisyphus smiles

        high John 

        the Conqueror 

        swine keep disappearing
daisies cheer
        moonbeams laugh        mannish boy dreams         petal drops
rock-paper-scissors 

        Nana Buluku

        no way to contact directly

        submit a support request

Jerome Berglund has worked as everything from dishwasher to paralegal, night watchman to assembler of heart valves. Many haiku, haiga and haibun he’s written have been exhibited or are forthcoming online and in print, most recently in bottle rockets, Frogpond, Kingfisher, and Presence. His first full-length collections of poetry Bathtub Poems and Funny Pages were just released by Setu and Meat For Tea press, and a mixed media chapbook showcasing his fine art photography is available now from Yavanika. 

Christina Chin is a painter and haiku poet. Her work has been featured in numerous publications online and in print: https://haikuzyg.blogspot.com/ https://christinachin99blog.wordpress.com/

Shane Coppage is an emerging writer with a fine arts degree. His words have been published in Humana Obscura, Cold Moon Journal, The Japan Society London, Shadow Pond Journal, and The Winged Moon Magazine. Connect with him on Instagram @shane_coppage.

Marjorie Pezzoli is a silk painter for 25+ years, visual artist, storyteller, and poet. Her writings deal with grief, hope, cosmic wonders, and stuff that catches her eye. Her poetry has been published in numerous anthologies since 2019. Many of her writings are inspired by her photographic observations taken while walking Beau, the dog with Betty Davis eyes. Marjorie looks for words that are worth a thousand images. wwwPezzoliart.com