Poetry from John Thomas Allen

A Dying Angel 

Timing is insufferable puppetry.
            Her cellular transmogrification            
in Tron stars and winding chutes of richoceting snowfall
in hourglasses of disco moons and drooling easels,
Soaked with the spider’s mandala.
The filigree’s weathervane neon above              
  a deserted cemetery-these
  are lattice, roomy and singes
      Rembrandt black and green
      from one flipping coordinate

In a symphonic
magnetite trance, her mandala’s 
vegetating jingo code 

under the duneflower’s tongue           

      t h e s o l e s e n s a t e s p l e n d o r  
t h e p l a s m a d e w’s t o u c h
  in a crisp noon 
 That film in the desert with 
   her at a distance, broken in clown makeup
  these mirrored digital sifts
  reflect back  
 a mis en abyme angle, cracked 
  in lunar symmetry.
The crude moon’s communion
             jackal pale, sphinx eyed
  mercurial black spinning   
a chrome silhouette cinching

Time’s ether gases these cufflink
            reveries, green stones, the glass
 porch angels, cross legged
 on the choral villas 

The straw sun sounding
; the arrival, the moving yard sale
 her reflection the bought mirror’s whole
           The cube dreamt porch shingles
           splinter and wet 
           these diamond tattoo tears
           of  a djinn belly dancer, her stare
the mosaic of how voodoo
              suffer in these pixie sandstorms

           in  leveled chambers    
of oceanic catcalls
       These free digits and running    
in that hushed, aromatic shade

           Her rolling eyes  
 green and yellow                                                                                                                        
  planetary eyes,   
            narcotic stars
in dust, transit as Grecian peaches 
  centering in a dizzy star scab
             Her voice a score a planisphere between
shredded Euclidean angel tongue
 The smoked mirror’s unsung
The fractal singing sand dunes
           Krenek’s flute guns
     I dreamt I traced you
Your simile a head in the Magic 8 ball 
On the alien bouquet of rose water UV shade 
On crumpled silkscreens, a faded Japanese smile
Eyes cinders in the windmills of diadem fortunes
The crypts of serrated light tombs  

Insomnia moons
Rotten marquee lights spilling
The pegged lights lit like Judy Garland’s 
black primrose trail 
 from her lap

She is chewing her movie jewels
in revolving chambers of yoga silk
Her yard line a ghost factory  
An echo and Hindu arms winding
Her hair gone up in ringlets
                            seaweed silk

of combed astral smoke

Sounding in a black box,

Sky marble and glass 
John Thomas Allen is from New York. His latest book entitled Lumière was published by NightBallet Press in 2014. His poems have appeared in Veil: a Journal of Dark Musings, Arsenic Lobster Magazine, Sulfur, Mad Verse, The Cimarron Review, etc., and he has a story in the anthology titled Narrow Doors in Wide Green Fields edited by R.W. Spryszak. In 2019, he won James Tate Prize for his chapbook entitled Rolling in the Third Eye,  which was subsequently published by SurVision Books in 2020 

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