featured in the poetry forum April 3, 2019  :: 0 comments

I hope you’re thirsty
it’s gonna to be a mess
my new mistake
red Pall Malls and
tosses her hair like
Elizabeth Taylor,
when it’s dirty
and crosses her stems
like flower crowns
clinging to porcelain.
I’m sure
is all going to end
very badly
but I’ve
made a drink
and buckled in.

Pretty girls
born in the 80s
carry the residue of
Molly Ringwald
and Siouxsie Sioux
without knowing who

It’s the flick of the wrist
resting on hips
dangling discount smokes
thrift store fake fur
strong second hand boots
clearance chocolate bunnies in the

Pretty girls
betray yourself your own crusty age
make you feel like a young man
even when you’re dickless
it’s reckless
it’s a shame

moon goggles
and kneepads
war paint stockpiled
clean slate from the last
terrible game
of the last dame

and It’s all a shame,
a fucking shame

editors note:

Train(wreck)spotting; always good TV. (This poem is included in Opalina’s new collection, Black Sparrow Dress, from Mad Swirl Press. You be glad to check this one out – get a copy here.) – mh clay

The night Mother Stepped into Space

featured in the poetry forum November 17, 2017  :: 0 comments

Def: of height, depth, and width within which all things exist and move

Wild dreams
Rocket ships
with missing seatbelts
soaked sheets
astral projections
shed her
of her
middle aged
carriage ride

mother dreams of this
his hands
picking strings
around her fairytale face

cheese wheel moon
takes her soon
sailing on star trail tail of
behind the sun
tin foil suit crackling away
from celestial maid
and she slides
between Styrofoam
in invisible arms
opens her mouth
and swallows
the milky way black soup of asteroids
mother laughs
her toes tickled trans Neptunian
night gown sizzling away

mother dreams of this
Star Trek sonar ping
The darkness of dark
Saturn is a turntable
And the tune
Is all right
In flight
At her feet
Tiny earth shrinks
Through the straw
Of her view
Her Ephemeris

editors note:

A sad blastoff for us behind, a new frontier for them. Yes! – mh clay


featured in the poetry forum October 13, 2016  :: 0 comments

I don’t know how to feel about this
Seems to be my mantra these days
I put on some Reverend Green
Look out the window and think and
My whirled up thinkings follow me
To the king spa all skin of tawny
All shapes and shades under the dim light scrubbing
Away our sadness and week
Of unreleased grime
How can you mend a broken heart?
Released under hot veil of bubbles
Sweat out on concrete stools
With tied bunches of herbs
Sloughed off and dripping
In here, no one can see you cry

I don’t know how to feel about this
The small framed Korean ladies
Dainty but strong
Straddle the Western thighs
Of the Americas scrubbing with both hands
To peel away the layers of regret
Shearing us down to a more manageable
Morsel of grief
Buttered skin and then we rinse
The waterfall
Take me to the river
And wash me down
Won’t you cleanse my soul
Put my feet on the ground

And all the other countries say
Look at what those crazy cowboys have done now
Shoot’ em up style
With their guns and their bombs and their drones
Look at what they have sown
It’s all still the wild wild west
Outlaws insatiable for blood
Bang bang, shoot ‘em up and gone
Oh those crazy Americans

I’m just trying to escape into my bowl of Ramyun
I’m just trying to sleep in the dark blanket of Al Green
Mercy Mercy Me
I don’t know how to feel about any of this anymore.

editors note:

A wasting week to wash away in radio and ramen. – mh clay

If I could

featured in the poetry forum July 13, 2015  :: 1 comment

If I could
Just hold on
To the tail ends sweeping
The talk
And mediocre
Could blind my eyes to your dissatisfaction
Close my ears to the silence
Break open windows in the airless room
Love the loveless
Sleep the forbidden dreams
In masks and riddles
And know your broad shoulders
Told no lies

Poor red
Pour red
In me
These violent things
I cannot sing

If I could
Intercept the gravity
That pulls my arms
And legs of scaffolds
Open wings
And claw marks
To questions
And tumble in your hair
That gives me pause

Poor red
Pour red
In me
These violent things
I cannot sing

If I could
Stub toes of journey
In the meandering night
And hear the music
Not aided by keys of smoke
But by your gentle sighs
Even so I long for the melodies
Unending in our love

Poor red
Pour red
In me
These violent things
I cannot sing

If I could just
Crack like sunshine
On the turning land
Burnish the fields
And plump the opiates
Of their moaning tendrils
Could blind my eyes to your dissatisfaction
Close my ears to the silence
Break open windows in the airless room
Love the loveless
Sleep the forbidden dreams
In masks and riddles
And know your soft lips
Told no lies

editors note:

Oh, yes! If we could (a pour for the poor), we would… wouldn’t we? (Another mad missive from Opalina on her page; something for breakfast – check it out.) – mh clay

Desayuno Con Mama Quilla

July 13, 2015  :: 0 comments

(Breakfast with Mama Killa)

A butterfly cut of crimson
Folded over
Lap napkins of skin

Rivulets burgundy
Pinstripes of sin
Sangre sacrada
Red clay pottery
On painted
In open palms
Licked off fingertips

She plunges her moonlight
Inside the vacancy
Pulling invisible
Scarlet walls
Ghost tremors
Of heartbeats
And tiny toes
Kicking away

As so she pulls the waves
From the sea
She pulls the life
From me
Breaking the fast
With a deluge
Of regret
Aimless semen
Scrambled eggs.

Squinting in the light

May 3, 2014  :: 0 comments

Hark! What light thru yonder bedsprings breaks?
It’s morning and the mockingbird is pecking it’s smeck under
dripping dew
Glistened blades of cerulean
Shimmering night crusted sleep
Crackles open
Newborn day
Gasps into nicotine stained lungs
Prism sun dappled your sleeping
Wondrously makes me squint in delight

This poem was commissioned by our Poetry Editor in September, 2013. Opalina was offering to write poems for spending money, and MH responded:

        OK, interesting!
        I would like 2 poems:
        Subject 1 – whistling in the dark
        Subject 2 – squinting in the light
        See where ur mojo takes you… mh

        This is one of the two poems she delivered.

Whistling in the dark

May 3, 2014  :: 0 comments

Teardrop stalactites

Water crest
Marimba tones on unseen terrains
Your hollow heart echoes these refrains
As I whistle in the dark
In lieu of calling your name

This poem was commissioned by our Poetry Editor in September, 2013. Opalina was offering to write poems for spending money, and MH responded:

        OK, interesting!
        I would like 2 poems:
        Subject 1 – whistling in the dark
        Subject 2 – squinting in the light
        See where ur mojo takes you… mh

        This is one of the two poems she delivered.

I’m Considering Klonopin

featured in the poetry forum May 3, 2014  :: 0 comments

because the cool white void
of oblivion
rests better behind my eyes
the mechanical flow of
morning to night
gets covered in English ivy
corners softened
spine released
green smells green
air has promise
my circumstance of daggers and wild eyes
misguided kismet
and spoiled dinner
can be saved
under the blanket of chemicals
it brings
the banal becomes beautiful
the erratic, iridescent
my desires are few
complacent calm in the ocean
of malice
kind eyes
laughter and open smiles
i can categorize your faces
French film frowns
Bogart lips and
cool cigarette exhale
sad baby teardrops on
the patio
tender kiss it away
and forget
i’m considering a drink
the bitter twist
it masks
my skin
blistered and pickled
to carve the edges of my skull
clean of all culpability
to shrug and wink seductively
dabble my fingertips in its wet
sexy mouth
and still wake the nagging complexities
that never get resolved
under its heavy slosh
and languid rolls
my vessel is always struggling
over the angry waves
of hops, grapes and fermented things
I’m considering an escape
a knapsack with music, notebooks and pills
walking shoes and no destination
asphalt or dirt roads
to caress with rambling
poems and songs
a blank memory to keep me walking
away from broken things
i can’t replace
a hearth with no heat
a library with no lights
a bed with no love
a heart with no beat
revolving sheets that leave me cool
in the night
fevered in worry
i’m considering Klonopin
because the reasons
are grinning at me
from the tree branches
like Cheshire cats
its the only way
i know how to
shame them
name them as my own
personify and destroy
with chemical formula symbols
my daggers
dulling the loneliness
of the compartments of my mind
in time it will all boil over the sunset
in pill capsule yellows
and i will dance freely again
but until then
i’m considering Klonopin

editors note:

We’re all chemical constructs anyway. So, what the hell? – mh

This is one for the insincere bitches

August 20, 2010  :: 0 comments

This is one for the insincere bitches
For the party guests celebrating nothing
For the amplified mediocrity
And the mandatory love slot machines
The slow motion syrup dispensers
The honey coated strings and things of manifest
Of seriousness, deliriousness
Debacles of forced strangeness
And new shit the new shit the new shit I wrote
This one is for the good old boys
The keepers of keys to imaginary worlds
Promises and rock star manifestations
Celebrations of specialness
With tasteless layers of cake
Spread out on wasted tables of disgrace
This is for the depressed spectators of life
Sucking the cock of the microphones like
Transgender concubines
Whirling turbines of the inevitable
Inevitable cycle that will crush itself
Empty spectacles
Word receptacles that will chew and spit you
Back out into bastardized versions
Of yourself, no self, himself out of herself
Never recognizing the softness and purity that
One could encumber themselves gently on
Like swaying clothes on a line on a spring day
Whether they may or may not come to this
Hard conclusion it is delusion to think that anything
Pure should come of this now
No not now
When the wind has been taken from the pure sails and
When soul has been plucked nay torn from the chests
No, breasts of us…see the rest of us
Had stock in something different
Something better than the regret that has split asunder
The plundered sunlight that only a woman
A real woman can bring to the world
One milky pearl of a word at a time
Generation gap set aside
I will no longer stand alone and reside
In the subservient role of your back handed
Remarks, the snide comments or exclusions,
The condescendence and pats on the shoulders
Or the gushing oh the over-the-top gushing
The spirit crushing feeling we get after hours of
The settling in that we are not accepted, merely
Tolerated in your cartoon character parade

If we’re not top heavy or we are too emotionally heavy
Or if we’re big girls who wear our big girl panties
Or we’ve got the brains and we know how to use them
And we’re not afraid to use them, it’s your own delusion
That makes you think you can mistreat us underhandedly
Then go back to your dens and puff on your tobacco filled
Dicks yes this still exists in our own arena or at least in
My world it seems to, I don’t know why.

This is not for the sincere loves

August 20, 2010  :: 0 comments

This is not for the sincere loves
For the funeral that celebrates everything
For the whispering brilliance
The fast and furious vinegar wells
Bitter sour oranges marinating
nothing undone
Of humor and health
Meditation of simple norms
And the old nourishment the old nourishment the old nourishment I lived
That one is not for the misfit
The minion with the locks to the real unknown
The void of common man pacifying
Mourning of the bland
Without Delicious Shit
Stacked on muddy floors of gracefulness
This is not for the jovial participant of death
Spitting the vulvular confines of open air like
Humanoid wives
Stationary wells of the obvious
Obvious linear renewal
Abundant day to day
Speech dispersing that will suck and swallow
Into the original
Of everyone, myself, herself into himself
Always unaware of the hard and debase
Many who couldn’t unencumber others brashly under
Unlike rigid nakedness circling a fall evening
I will or I will not go away from that
Soft question and realization to act that one
Unholy thing shouldn’t become
Yes now
When the stillness has been given to the unholy nets
And the receptacle has been birthed, yes glued to the guts
Yes back of mine, blind to the masses
Empty of anything similar
Anything worse than the intent that hasn’t been complete
The given moonlight that only a man
A false man can take from the unknown
Many dirty stones of silence all at once
Peers embraced
I will sit together in transience
In the dominance of my forthright thoughts
The genuine litany and inclusions
The exhaustion and slaps on the face
Or the loathing the underling loathing
The uplifting numbness I never receive before minutes
Of moving that I am accepted
Not tolerated in reality’s solitary march

If I’m not bottom light or numb
Or a little girl devoid of maturity
Or If I’m unequipped and cannot act
And I’m fearful of it’s uselessness
It’s my own reality that doesn’t create action for caring, and openness
The come to my open fields and drink from my empty vapory vulva
No this ceases to exist in the outer world
Or at its fullest in the unknown
It doesn’t seem to
And I know why.