Pricing Out
cream detachment
heard a blast within
the many
and
another antic
gone
disaster commandeering
reveals
a digital scribble racket
*
dark songs
measured loose bits
as sacred
deeper, prescient
of swollen definition
more ale along the water bars
flavor bursts
replenish filched steel
Invigorating the spat
unlike no
*
the bars crack shut
their sea against marriage
roaming acclamations
across the surging gape
against
the chronically nostalgic
as place
colors
drift
no profit comes stainless
Cognitive Flight in the Day Cart
ontological waters
ear from a mattress sea
bubbling rise singing
postulate shaft zero
in monochord plan
bookmark prophecy cautious
of the weary regret
her delay cold vibrations
bleed
the scratched
feats precious militia culpas
parroting
the sound of wringer memories
rotor
torment supple slavering wings
turn the commissioned jitney
his lost waters punctuating rubric
plastered cigars
numbing forklift patterns
dark and strong
every supposition doorway
requires a widening alcove
the slump no victory
*
a speechless pent
scripted percussive exchanging
tidal ratcheting reflects
mitosis beans with membranes
along the garbanzo torn
with age laundering
the mashed clasp margins
stemming
rank turn juices
the cavernous claims clunk and scratch
the discerning frenzy installation
desecrated scattered truths
the roving self escaped pleasures
Christmas Spirited
vocalist workbench climb
bearded the somnolent hydrant
its fin stain
a wireless vacancy
morbid curls
motoring the gray inscription
portable volume gone menu
a past among therm
fetal homecoming revenue
manipulated
breath pageants
(the ravenous breathe frequency mustard)
*
a stateroom glower
from past celebrant
boiled the dreamer
the
delivering shaver
curriculum
palette temples
to spite swallowers
only one getaway fired
repentance scoreboard a facet achievement
the hinterlands
a predicated nostrum
glimpsing
a roast metallurgist
cackle before disparity
a spectral typescript
dreamers ration
Current Events Downstream
cornered eyeballs
lost their mimetic vibrations
torn without swords
traffic vibrations transformed
atonal hamlets
while masked
the raisin hippies outlined
galloping rejection
its repression invisibly dentist
a pawned handbag
spilled their watercourse keep
iteration punctuating
a dead period darkening ooze
nitrous eyeballs
burnt a lava memorial forward
old crease brickading
darkened the stalkers
dipping the bloodbath
a weary mist welled
scattered stapled trickles
retrofit removed the newsman
A Lost Season Coming Back
a sinking dock set flagons
steaming a leftward transit
lashed a nascent horsewhip
a fresco malfunction churning
fountains toward ruder color
turns the next night cautious
conjecture burns rumination
greatest hit payola memories
the jerk admonished to wait
silent over a nominal milestone
stowed a disconsolate elastic
in the ebb vat last welled out
fruition spinning from stucco
in dribbles traces their tingle
rudiments to fanlight colanders
spread through riot repression
an empty grip let bandwidth
ripple equinox emerges angry
tips the ether bottles round
billiard asset cruises a sleek
atrium habitat infernal meter
glints a habit lost to vacuum
simulacra subsidy scatters
skin play’s tingling symbols
BIO
Vernon Frazer’s latest poetry collection is Memo from Alamut.
Category Archives: CHAOS
Poetry from Garret Schuelke
The Graves of Heroes and Villains On my weekend vacation to Chicago, I revisited the graves of labor activists and leaders I've long admired, as well as the graves of two genuine, absolute monsters. On the hero side: the Haymarket Martyrs', Emma Goldman, Lucy Parsons, and all the other socialists, communists, anarchists, unionists, and other leftists buried in Forest Home Cemetery. On the villain side: Allan Pinkerton and George Pullman - the mercenary and the industrialist, whose actions and power decimated the poor and working class during their eras, buried in Graceland Cemetery. (Additionally, I also visited the grave of famous boxer Jack Johnson, and returned to the grave of Augustus Dickens, brother of Charles Dickens.) I remember part of a conversation I had with a Grand Rapids comedian on my podcast awhile back, where we basically agreed that leftists generally care more about their comrades - living and dead - than reactionaries do. Today, and yesterdays, grave visits reminded me of how right we were. The graves and monuments on Forest Home's "Radicals Row" are visited often, and are abound with tokens of respect, remembrance, and Love - flowers, coins, buttons, handwritten personal messages, and sometimes even discarded employee I.D.'s! There have been numerous gatherings, lectures, vigils, and even concerts in this area! People not only want to visit these comrades, they feel like they NEED to come here. They need to honor those who have passed, those that are struggling now, those who will join the fight in the future, and to honor themselves - to know that their lives are not futile. Pinkerton and Pullman's graves, on the other hand, show no such signs of visitations and affection. Parts of Pinkerton's grave, along with his family members, and agents who I guess were deemed worthy enough to be buried next to their boss, are so washed out now that you can barely make out some of the inscriptions. His grave had to be guarded 24/7 for some time after he passed because it was feared that the various peoples his organization oppressed, beaten, and murdered would dig him up and fuck with his corpse. You don't see the FBI, CIA, or other intelligence and "security" agencies coming by to pay respects to Allan's plot, even though they descend from his organization. Other than being known as historical, strike-breaking, union busting thugs, the only real time you hear of the Pinkerton's these days is when they're suing games companies like Rockstar for defaming their image by making them the bad guys in their games, or bands like Weezer for apparently infringing on their trademarks by titling one of their two great albums after a opera character who shares the same name. What a shitty legacy to have. (NOTE: this poem is largely made up of a Facebook post I made of this visit, and the best comment I got was "Pinkerton's went after Arthur Morgan too I’ll never forget") Pullman's grave is much better off, but then you remember that he had his lead casket encased in cement, steel rails, and even MORE cement, because he feared the workers he exploited and attacked would still be so pissed at him that, after he took a dirt nap, they would dig him up and fuck with his corpse. You won't ever see corporate maniacs like Musk or Bezos leaving flowers on Pullman's grave, despite their thought processes and business tactics descending from scumbags like him. You won't see your typical small business tyrant looking up to Pullman as a hero, even though they have the same desire to control their workers, as well as their communities if it'll help them fill their pockets. And you certainly won't see these sigma grindset, alpha male motivational influencers cite Pullman as someone to emulate - and you can be sure these huskers have NEVER even heard of him - even though they share the same fiery motivation to be looked upon as capitalist deities. What a REALLY shitty legacy to have. TLDR: if you gain money and power by fucking over people, you won't be honored nor remembered, even by those whose emulate your actions in the far future. If you try to help mankind, even if you die early, penniless, and in pain, you will be honored, remembered, and Loved by those who continue the fight. Keep that in mind. (FINAL NOTE: Jack Johnson's grave was adorned with flowers, coins, and cigarettes, and Augustus Dickens had nothing, because who's gonna remember Charles Dickens brother other than literary nerds like me?) Garret Schuelke is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), WHUP JAMBOREE: STORIES (Elmblad Media Group), and ANAMAKEE (Riot Forge Studios). He hosts The Garret Schuelke Podcast, and makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory. He currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and can be found on Twitter: @garretschuelke
Garret Schuelke is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), WHUP JAMBOREE: STORIES (Elmblad Media Group), and ANAMAKEE (Riot Forge Studios). He hosts The Garret Schuelke Podcast, and makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory. He currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan, and can be found on Twitter: @garretschuelke
Poetry from Pat Doyne
STAND YOUR GROUND When everyone is armed, we will be safe. No crime. No problems. That’s the Promised Land. So now we’re armed and strong on “self defense.” We stockpile pistols, shotguns, rifles, air guns, submachine guns, even AR-15s. From coast to coast, we watch the bullets fly. North Carolina—here’s a six-year-old playing basketball. It bounces wide, and into someone’s yard. Guy charges out-- he shoots her, and her frantic mom and dad. “I told you kids stay off my frickin’ lawn!” When everyone is armed, we will be safe. Missouri, now, a teen-aged honor student, comes to get his twin. He rings the doorbell. Wrong door opens. Fearful man inside shoots him in the face. No questions asked. When everyone is armed, we will be safe— unless you’re black, and knock on the wrong door. Upstate New York has mazes of back roads. A young girl, 20, looking for a house, pulls into a likely driveway, hopes it’s right. The homeowner’s irate. He shoots her dead. When everyone is armed, we will be safe— unless you’re searching for an obscure address. New Mexico cops. Domestic violence call. Police respond. Wrong house, Knock on the door. Owner opens, handgun for support. The lawmen open fire, and shoot him dead. When everyone is armed, we will be safe— unless some nervous cops come to your door. Two Texas cheerleaders scanned the parking lot, thought they found their car. Opened the door. Wrong car. Apologized. The man inside pulled out a gun, took aim, and shot them both. When everyone is armed, we will be safe— unless your car’s a common make and hue. Angry people hole up in a fortress. Frightened people think a gun gives clout. Shoot first, question later; stand your ground! Look what really happens at the door when everyone is armed—blood, pain, and death. When everyone is armed, no one is safe. Copyright 4/2023 Patricia Doyne
Poetry from Ian Copestick
Extra Points For Sarcasm 10:30 a.m. I'm on my way home after a wild, stoned night. Feeling tired, but having no hangover feels like a blessing. Especially when dealing with dead head bus drivers. I don't know why, but they never give you a straight answer about their route. I think that at the interviews they must employ the nastiest people they can possibly find. The more of a twat they are, the more they want to employ them. Sarcasm causes them to get extra points too. Or that's how I imagine it to be.
Poetry from Chris Butler
Eight Day Weeks Between sunny Sundays and blue Mondays, laid a day so dark and full of hate that it shall not be named. Gray There's no black, there's no white. There's no wrong, there's no right. There's no good, there's no evil. There's no dark, there's no light; because just before the looming storm, exists distant, infinite shades of gray. Thoughts and Prayers When a national tragedy becomes just another day and the news is always "BREAKING", grab a letter sized white envelope and fill it with all of the thoughts and prayers from your big heart and your little head, then lick and seal it shut before they escape into the open air, stick on a stamp, and wait until the next day's tragedy for the address to mail it to your child's school. Hello Sorrow Hello Sorrow my first friend, will you allow me to drown in burning rivers of fire water, or float like a hollow log as you hover over the ghostly souls of all who you have met before, until you arrive to make the skies cry, or will you keep me afloat like a log flowing downstream, and we meet again, my last friend. Even When You're Dead Even when you're dead the neurons keep firing ping-zing-bing-ding against the inside of the skull, but tricking others into thinking that figeting, flickering and flinching doesn't mean that you're still living.
Poetry from Kendall Snipper
On Decay Someday, the earth shall sink our bodies into her somber soil. Our expressions will still, slip and melt, iris eternally slept to the sounds above. Marigolds and mignonette will mingle in our eyesockets as their stems and seed speckle the surface. As the bubbles in our blood break, the lingering love will liquefy into the expanse of the lusting, fertile terrain. The cloth coating our flecked figures slowly frays and fragments, formerly protecting; Now naked and pure for the glossy mahogany and roses ringing our forms. The mauves, azures, and sepias will frolic from our fingertips into into the firmament. Bleeding and blooming at the break of dawn. Time tips and the trapping of our entombment softens and starts to rot, returning to the tranquil trance of the planet as a sparkling spring star.
Poetry from J.J. Campbell
how much money a few women in the last couple of days have told me i don't look my age i laugh, tell them thanks and then ask how much money are they looking for i certainly love how honesty throws them off and when i'm not interested in seeing them naked for just a few dollars they quietly go away apparently, this sucker has grown up ------------------------------------------------------------------- lose yourself the receptionist reminds me of this girl i used to flirt with back in high school amazing smile, dark eyes, smooth brown skin with an ass you could lose yourself in for hours in high school, it only got to the stage of kissing i see the rock on the receptionist and know, this won't even get that far -------------------------------------------------------------------- some kind of music i don't trust a waiting room that isn't playing some kind of music it's obvious, this office wants the patients to have nothing but impending doom on their minds -------------------------------------------------------------- and the moment i decide i wonder when the relief of death will knock on my door i'm patiently waiting as best as i can i figure, my life will change, i'll be active in the world and the moment i decide life is a beautiful thing i'll hear a knock and realize i never was smarter than when i was eight years old ------------------------------------------------------------- your profile photo these younger women these days make me laugh like i'm supposed to believe you really are the adult film star in your profile photo and when i catch them in the lie it gets even better and sure, they all think i'm handsome and all have been abused one way or another it never dawns on them the amount of abuse i have survived you can't bullshit a survivor
J.J. Campbell (1976 – ?) is trapped in suburbia, plotting his escape. He’s been widely published over the years, most recently at Misfit Magazine, just good poems, The Beatnik Cowboy, Horror Sleaze Trash and The Black Shamrock. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)